


teeth and lungs

by fishcola



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: (Brief Mention of) Peril / Death, (Brief Mention of) Weed / Acid, (Non-Prescription) Drug Use, (Prescription) Drug Use, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Getting Together, Hook-Up, M/M, Mature Competent Professional Gays, Mutual Pining, Second person POV, Sickfic, Werewolves, argument, intravenous drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:21:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21852739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishcola/pseuds/fishcola
Summary: PROMPT: Brian starts at polygon after being bitten by a werewolf; Pat is also a werewolf.
Relationships: Brian David Gilbert/Patrick Gill
Comments: 36
Kudos: 106
Collections: Polygolidays Gift Exchange 2019!





	1. incisor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).

> Here be RPF therefore: look away, look awayyyy, look away, look awayyyyy etc. 
> 
> For spacegirl, who is endlessly patient of my cliffhangers and my slowness of composition, who has helped me be brave enough to share all kinds of things I write just for myself. Thank you my dear. 
> 
> (with a nod to wen, last-minute beta and cheerleader extraordinaire <3)

Jeez Louise, this isn’t good. It’s _very _not good, that you’re drugged off your ass your first week at your brand-new life-changing dream job. Why did it have to be _this _week, why did you have to—  
(gosh it was stupid, going out was stupid)  
—well. There’s nothing for it now. 

Nothing for it. You’re here, red-eyed and ringing-ears, shifting your weight from foot to foot in the fancy industrial-hip Vox lobby, trying to distract yourself with making sure you’ve memorized the subway route here from Brooklyn, trying to remember Laura’s sweet little pep talk as she flattened down your hair this morning, trying to feel that they _ want _you here, that’s why they hired you, they must think you belong here at least a little bit. Even if you’ve never worked in New York before. Or in a real office before. Or in video games, before. 

Oh god, you can barely even _ play _a video game, hopefully that’s not part of onboarding, if you have to handle a controller right now your sweaty fingertips are gonna falter uselessly; your K/D ratio’ll even more dreadful than back in college when you played Halo (badly) with Jonah. 

Tara’s nice. No-nonsense and crisp jokes, a warm smile, no comment on how much of a wreck you look, how you’re stumbling through sleep-haze and clenching your jaw so hard that surely, surely she can see the tendons. Nah, she just walks you around, points out everybody, and gosh— 

_ gosh _ it’s a lot of names, all crowded together, in that tiny computer bank she calls _ the bullpen _. You’re lucky you know so many of them already from videos and frantic job-interview googling. Normally you’re good with names, with eye contact, but you’re not in tip-top thinkin’ shape right now, no way. Your brain’s blurry with suppressants and your doctor wasn’t fucking kidding when she mentioned 

(_ … in the postdromal phase—that means after the lunar cycle, Mr. Gilbert—you’ll likely experience some lingering effects. Aches and pains, foggy-headedness… _)

the kinds of “minor complaints” you might experience. 

“And this is Russell—”

You phase back in, try to smile in a way that approximates normal, try to drum out through your muddled stuttering how earnestly grateful you feel, as you tell Russ and Jeff and Simone and Chris and person after person that you’re a big fan, that you’re so lucky to be here, that you’re excited to be part of the team, blah blah blah… 

(Fuck, you shouldn’t be skirting over the details, here—you should be _ trying _ —  
this is it, this is all you’ve wanted, this is your Big New York Chance—  
this is the only thing maybe all year you’ve done that’s worthy of attention—  
and you just can’t _ concentrate _ —  
friggin’ god, it’s just so _ you _ for the best thing that’s ever happened to you to happen to you right after the worst thing that’s ever happened to you happens to you.)

You’ve given up on making a good impression but you’d really like to make a not-horrible one. Even through squinting double vision, even though you’re filling every important form with a finger-slipping mess of childlike scrawl. Even though it’s embarrassing, and stressful, and you’re sweating through your nice new professional button-up by 10am. 

At least no one here knows you yet. That’s something. No one can be like, _ wow Brian, you look tired! _ or _ dang, BDG, you’re awfully twitchy today, _ or _ hey why are you wearing a long-sleeved shirt? _

Nope! All of your new, smart, funny, awesome, sexy coworkers

(_ sexy _?) 

will just think you’re a weirdo, that this limp damp handshake is normal for you. Which sucks. But it sucks less than losing this job for taking sick leave on your first fucking day. Even if you feel like a cherry that’s been viciously pitted, and the world is yellow and blurry around the edges, and all you want is to call your mom and talk it all out, again, for the third time, because hearing her try not to cry for you hurts but also makes you feel loved. 

It’s a terrible day to be working, really. But what can you do? Sometimes life pelts you with lemons, and you just gotta drag your citrus-bruised ass out to the corner to hustle some fuckin’ lemonade. That’s capitalism, baybee.

##  ⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤

Simone volunteers to give you _ “zee grande tour, mon nouvelle frere! _ ”, which turns out mostly to be an exercise in useful mischief. She shows you where the bathrooms are, points out which walls are shared with Vox neighbors who do, quote, actual work, and “ _ don’t like it if you scream at jumpscares at 10am, all right?” _She also walks you up the fire escape, presses open a door that says DO NOT OPEN - ALARM WILL SOUND (it doesn’t) and pulls you onto the roof. 

“You gotta shove paper in the lock, or prop the door,” she says, kicking a broken cinderblock into place. “Otherwise you could come up here to smoke and lock your ass out. And if, for instance, you left your phone in your purse, then you’d be stuck screaming at passers-by until Pat gets back from lunch and comes to rescue you.” She honks a laugh. “And trust me, he’ll be smug about it _ forever _.” 

You twitch a grin. Simone is awesome. “Hypothetically.” 

“Hypothetically,” she agrees. “So look sharp. I don’t need any competitors for the title of office dumbass.” 

“Watch the throne,” you murmur, in what’s supposed to be a joke— 

—but it trails off uneven as your eyes skirt the roof-edge. You’re trying to steady yourself. You’re not afraid of heights, not—well, not more than the _ average _person, you don’t think—but you’re a little afraid of being afraid right now. You feel like a, a stupid wobbly-legged foal trying to figure out how to walk in its new gangly body. 

That’s a dumb metaphor. Your body isn’t _ new. _This one isn’t, anyway. It’s the same as always, even if you’ve shaved a few years off your life expectancy by being a dumbass. 

_ Don’t worry too much, _ the doctor said. _ Life expectancies for lycanthropy sufferers are quite good, and they should be even better by the time you’re in your fifties. There will be advancements in treatment, probably within the decade. _

_ Work on your bedside manner, _ is what you thought. _ Thank you _, is what you said. 

Your body isn’t _ new _ , but it’s not the same as always, not anymore. Hopefully this body doesn’t have any weird compulsions, any _ appel-du-vide _urges, lying latent to be tested. 

“Afraid of heights?” Simone asks, after the beat, the beats, of silence. 

“Nah,” is all you muster. “Just looking.” 

The open air is good. You can smell the muddy familiar concrete and oil. It washes out the barrage of inside-smells. They told you that this, this _ thing _ would make you hypersensitive to odors. They didn’t explain how fucking disturbing that would be. You could smell three different types of cleaning solution on your office tour today (you’re pretty sure one and only one of them contains ammonia), and you’ve mapped out every perfume in the office (Simone’s is floral, honeyed; Tara’s is a pale clean scent that’s probably labeled “cotton” or “angels” or something like that; Russ definitely wore cologne on the weekend but not today) and you know someone made ramen in the break room yesterday, and although you haven’t asked if you can bring a pet to work you know at least _ someone _has recently, and… 

fuuuu_ uuuck _. You’re going to end up being “that new guy—the one who is freaky about smells.” It’s not like you’re unused to being the weirdest person in the room, but you’d really um. Rather people not put two-and-two together— 

your stomach lurches. About what, exactly?—  
the sudden realization that a few buildings over someone’s got a gas leak (it’s minor)—  
or just the sudden vertigo drop of _ oh god this is my life now. _

“You all right, Brian?” Simone asks, rests a hand on your arm. You startle, but your body doesn’t cooperate, drug-sluggish—it eats the quickness of your reflexes, turns it into a stumble. 

“I’m fine,” you say, and you make yourself laugh, cobble together an apologetic grin. “I just can’t...can’t believe I’m here. This has been a crazy week.”

“Saturn’s in retrograde,” she dips her chin sagely in a nod. “So shit be cray.” 

“Yeah,” you agree, a beat too late and a touch too earnest, “Real disaster fire.” 

She smiles at this but doesn’t laugh. Fuck. That was supposed to be a joke. You feel so _ off. _You’ve got no particular beef with Saturn, at the moment, but there are some other heavenly bodies you’d like to have a friggin’ word with. 

“Thanks for showing me around, Simone,” you say, and this smile comes easier, because you really _ are _thankful, and you’re, you’re— 

you’re at least _ okay _at compartmentalizing, and gosh, everyone here has been really nice. Just like you hoped. This job is gonna be fun, and everyone is gonna be nice, and you can’t keep Simone from work any longer, you can’t let yourself stand on this roof and allow the things lurking inside you to gnaw their way out. 

You head back down into the office together. Someone, somewhere, is eating a Tootsie Roll. 

##  ⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤

Honestly, the first week goes okay. Sure, you’re tired, and you’re twitchy, and you can smell stuff that’s _ inside the refrigerator _ jeez Louise, but at least onboarding is kinda chill? Everyone’s awesome, nice, _ super _ nice, super duper wonderful nice, and friendly, and warm, and welcoming, and they like your sense of humor and they don’t make you feel like, like, _ desperate _, don’t make you feel like you don’t belong here, even though you’re theater-kid goofy and younger-brother eager-to-please. 

It’s stupid to say you love this job already, ‘cause you’ve hardly even begun doing it, barely past paperwork and shadowing and sitting in on meetings and taking lots of useless notes, just for something to do with your hands. 

(You get a look, from Simone, about your frantic note-taking; you get a curious eyebrow, and you turn your page so she can see the weird little pattern of paisley dicks you’ve drawn in the margins; she snorts so loud everyone can hear it. You grin. You like it here.)

It’s stupid, but you love this job already. You’re an optimist by nature, which kinda means you’re an idiot, but also kinda means your brain is always crowded with the tantalizingly possible. You can imagine, oh, getting a real good patter going with Jenna, maybe on stream some day—Tara inviting you out for lunch, not as some new-coworker formality but one day maybe as _ friends _—you mentioning a gig you’re playing with Jonah, a nearby dive bar, and Jeff wanting to come—

look, your brain is gonna churn out possible futures, okay? So why not happy ones. 

Even unattainable ones. ‘Cause like, this Polygon gig was unattainable, right? 

So it can’t hurt. To imagine— 

—what it’d be like to go out for drinks today, after work, to say you really need it and to be able to say _ why _, to get a solid sulk on about the absolute shit you’ve been through this week— 

you bet Simone would snort-laugh-apologize at the stupid story of how you got bit—  
you bet Clayton would be really nice about it—  
you bet Pat would deadpan something funny when you complain about your new health insurance premiums. 

You let your stupid daydreams drift off, release the string of that balloon before it tugs any higher. You don’t mind being optimistic but you don’t want to be _ stupid _. 

And you’re being stupid. You don’t have any basis for guessing what Pat’s like, anyway, other than his tweets. You haven’t interacted yet. On Monday he was out sick. The next day he was in, you’re pretty sure, but you didn’t, you didn’t even realize it ‘til well past noon, ‘cause you were shadowing Clayton on lighting equipment and surviving your first pitch meeting with Tara. 

Pat’s kind of a low-key guy, you guess. From his videos, and his quiet movements around the office, how he gives everyone (or maybe just you…?) a wide berth. You don’t want to ask after him, to try to force anything. That’d be weird. You’re on the same team, so you’re bound to get shoved together pretty soon, right? Yeah, maybe he’s gonna miss out on your sweaty awkward introduction handshake, but hah, his loss, right? 

##  ⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤

Over the week, your body gets better, but your nerves don’t. You bite your lip, feel a tingle of oddly embodied paranoia creep numbly up your elbow whenever you glance over at Pat’s desk. The guy’s definitely friggin’ avoiding you, and it’s definitely on purpose. Sure he, he waved at you, smiled, at the all-hands yesterday. But that’s it. 

God, you’re on the _ same friggin’ team _ , you have to manage to talk to him _ some _time. 

Shit. Does he hate you already? You’ve got a kind of goofy ol’ face. Hateable? People have hated you before, for your look, for how jumpy you are, for how you throw yourself too much too fast into everything. You can win ‘em over, you figure, in the long run. You’re good at that. 

Oh gosh, but why’d it have to be Patrick Gill that hated you? 

He’s your, he’s the, of all the—  
heck, he’s your _ favorite _ Polygon video personality  
(and yes, maybe, okay, he’s your low-key crush that only Laura knows about,  
and you haven’t even technically admitted it to Laura  
but she’s a stupid wizard and she knows things about you before you even know them.) 

You breathe fast in and slow out and try to be reasonable. This can’t be about you. You haven’t even _ done _anything yet. Maybe Pat Gill’s just having a bad week. Or maybe he doesn’t trust boys with nail polish. Or maybe he saw your application video, saw that you were a fan, thought that was a little creepy. Or maybe he just didn’t want anybody new on the team at all. 

Well, no, that last one’s not it, ‘cause he gets on just fine with Jenna

(you walked in on them in the breakroom, laughing and joking—something about Japanese RPGs and the kinds of people who have katanas—you walked in on that bright broad real smile— 

you were surprised by it, stupidly, sucked in a sudden breath like a gasp— 

and Pat looked over at the gasp and his face tightened up sharp and sudden and you got the world’s most perfunctory _ hi, Brian _) 

and Jenna is also new. So it can’t be that you’re new. He doesn’t hate everyone new. He hates you _ in particular. _

Shit. 

##  ⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤

Finally, _ finally _ , on Friday afternoon the office is emptying out and you’re finishing the last few words on, like, the first proper script you’ve ever written for Polygon, oh my god, the first script where everyone’s gonna see you and just you on camera, not just you in a group or a jackbox game, but, your first try being a video game video producer (and wow that’s clunky gosh you gotta find a better way to say that) and while you’re thinking of how to explain it to your mom, someone appears close to your desk with a mild-mannered attention-getting cough and you say _ just one sec! _

‘cause you’re so close to done and you figure it’s just Clayton who won’t mind and instead— 

you turn, and startle, because it’s Pat Gill. The man himself. 

He’s—_ fuck _

just as hot in person. Hotter, actually. His hair’s longer and his beard’s scruffier than you’d remembered, from the videos. He’s broad-shouldered and long as heck, just so slim and long-torsoed, with long arms that are long and spindly and tight with muscle, arms that make you want to lick up those veins and end with nuzzling your face in— 

_ oh my God jeez Louise get a hold of yourself Bri. _

Shit. Fuck. You’re not usually this horny on main. Certainly not for a coworker. Certainly not in your first friggin’ week of work. What the heck has gotten into you? 

(Is this a, a _ werewolf _ thing?) 

Well, whatever’s gotten into you, you can’t get it out in the next minute. You shake yourself, try not to gape, try not to look dumb and goofy and wide-eyed-staring while Patrick is long and dark and handsome and not quite really looking at you. 

“Hey,” Pat says gruffly. “Can I talk to you a minute? In one of the meeting rooms.” 

There’s a beat of hesitation. His mouth is a tense line. He appends: “It’s okay if not.” 

“Sure thing, Pat Gill!”

Fuck. You wish the gut-flipping nervous energy in you didn’t manifest itself in your voice, didn’t raise the pitch until it came out in a shy little chirp. He doesn’t seem bothered, though. By the chirp. Doesn’t laugh at it or scowl or anything. Just nods, while still not-looking at you, nods and steps back polite and turns and walks off without looking to see if you’re following or if you’re, maybe, having a very quick and efficient panic attack. 

You shuffle inside; it’s small and sound-proofed and furnished with only a couple little things, a plushy couch, that kind of stuff; Patrick shuts the door and turns sharp to look at you. 

His eyes are—_ gosh. _

(Smoldering is the word that pops up into your mind, and you dismiss it, replace it with something goofy because _smoldering_ is way too, too much for a coworker you started on _Monday_ hot damn Gilbert cool your slutty heels much???) 

But gosh, he hasn’t so much as _ looked _ at you all friggin’ week—  
he’s looked away, past, any time you’ve been in any proximity—  
he’s been soft-spoken and downward-glancing, quick to leave the room—  
not obnoxious but certainly not paying you any attention at all. 

It’s, it’s the, the polar opposite, right now.

You’re a foot apart, and Pat’s gaze is locked in tight, hot with some emotion. A stare like that, with dark eyes and dark hair and sharp lines; it’s, it’s ..._ fierce. _You don’t think you have enough strength in your body to break it. Even if you wanted to, even if you didn’t feel like he was doing some kind of incantation to you, a spell to which you’re a willing supplicant. 

Pat breathes, slow in through his mouth and slow out through his nose, like a deep sigh but slower. It feels like he’s breathing _ at _ you, like a challenge, but can you even—can you breathe _ at _someone? Intentional? Unblinking? 

(Is this normal coworker behavior…?) 

You feel like you might be about to be—  
to be fired? seduced? apologized to?  
told bad news or blackmailed or blindfolded or murdered or— 

“I know what you are.” 

_ Shit. _ Your gut drops right, right away, because—  
because gosh fuck damn you just weren’t born to keep secrets—  
and those are, are  
are precisely the five words you’ve been having terror-nightmares about—  
and god oh jeez oh no oh—  
oh no fucking _ wonder _ Pat hates you if—  
is he gonna yell at you? or hit you? or maybe—  
maybe just tattle on you to HR and fuck _ shit _ you’re definitely fired then—  
you should have disclosed, you _ knew _ it, you knew it, you just—  
gosh there’s barely been enough, enough time to, to _ process _ —  
the you that a-a-applied to this job isn’t the you that’s t-taking it— 

You hear yourself stammering, something, something dumb, and you’re also step-stammering back, wrong-foot yourself, fall, inelegant but not very far, to a seat on the cushion below you. You yip in clumsy surprise as you go down and it shakes up Pat’s expression a little, his attention still on you, his gaze, but not quite as much, as his brow creases in a quick moment of worry, 

“No, it’s not—god, sorry. Didn’t mean to— you okay?” 

You say nothing, and stare, and wait because you don’t know what to say. You certainly didn’t hurt yourself falling two feet onto a couch, anyone would know that, which means you’re okay, unless of course Pat wants to make you not-okay, which you suppose he could do, now. 

Pat screws his lips up, a little wry, a little stricken. “ ‘mnot trying to put you on blast. It’s just, uh, I can smell it. Wolf to wolf, yknow?”

You blink, gape. Pat’s a— 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—that was a bad way to—sorry for freaking you out. Um. Let me try that again.” 

—_ wolf to wolf? _

“Hi,” he waves, gives an awkward little smile. “I’m Pat Gill, I’m also a werewolf. Can I, uh—would you let me greet you?”

It’s weird, that when you should be, be _ shocked _, or relieved, or happy, or maybe a touch afraid—it’s weird that you’re none of those things. The only part of your brain that is working seems to be reevaluating that wet-dog smell that’s been hanging around the office. 

“I’ve been trying to—well, I thought it was better to give you space? This week. But it’s getting—” he gestures vaguely, runs his hand through his shaggy hair, gives a little self-deprecating laugh. “I mean. I don’t know if it bothers you at all. But it kinda—I get keyed up.” 

He’s fidgety, that you’re spending so long staring. You need to say something. 

“Greet me?” you echo,

and your voice sounds confused but at least, at least not frantic? That’s something. 

“Uh-huh,” Patrick hums, light, intentionally light, like he’s forcing his way through not being awkward and he’s not confident he’s gonna make it. A weird sound to couple with that bone-breaking stare. His cheeks have a touch of shy color and the slant of his mouth looks embarrassed now, rather than upset. “Like, uh a quick sniff? Just get the basics out of the way. You know how it is.” 

“I...what? I—I d-don’t—” 

“Oh.” Pat grimaces, almost a flinch. “Don’t want me to? Um, okay. Sorry for bothering you, then—” 

You backpedal, quick, because whatever he’s asking you certainly don’t want to tell him _ no _, to make him wince like that, you’ve taken a gosh dang improv class before Brian David Gilbert kick it into gear. 

“Uh, I don’t mind! I just...I d-dunno what you’re talking about? Greeting me. I don’t know what that is. Um. But I’m game? If you um. Tell me first?” 

You find yourself mirroring Pat’s gesture, mindlessly, brushing a tuft of hair out of your eyes, moving to push it behind your ear, even though it’s not long enough to warrant it and it’s definitely not gonna stay. 

“It’s fine, really. I shouldn’t’ve—” Pat tucks his tongue at the corner of his lip, looks uncertain. “It was wrong to like, hole you up in here. My bad.” 

His hand’s on the doorknob, and he’s turning it, retreating, looking a little upset but you can’t tell if it’s at you or at himself. You feel like you’ve cracked something, broken it, before you even knew what it was—shook a Christmas present too hard and heard the sickening tinkle of glass. 

“No! No—sorry if I was rude? Didn’t mean to be,” you rush out the words, throw them out like a life preserver. “Hey listen, I’m just not an expert yet, okay? I’m real awkward even about normal—about—about regular stuff.” _ Oof that’s bad shit bad bad you’re doing a bad job. _“I’m sorry. You’re the first—the first werewolf I’ve ever met? In person? I mean except this guy—” 

last ditch, instinct, you unbutton the cuff of your shirt, roll up your sleeve, you don’t even know why, you just want the joke to land

“—and he was _ not _very courteous, let me tell you! So I didn’t learn the niceties.” 

Pat stops—freezes, really—and you smile your goofy, stupid, smile, and hope you’ve un-fucked this conversation by sheer brash awkward boldness. 

“_J__esus Christ._”

Ah, jeez. It’s—

well, okay, it’s a _ little _gratifying, the way Pat startles, at first, pulls his hand off the door and returns his absolute focus to you—

but it’s too much, too much, the wide-eyed stare, the way the color drops out of his cheeks. He greens, almost, like your Ace bandage is something horrible, horrifying, like it’s gory or bloody or gross or— 

well it’s, uh, _ not _ , okay? It’s just a tidy little bandage and Laura rewrapped it perfectly, you can’t even see anything around the edges of it, maybe just the hint of a bruise. Gosh, even if you unwrapped it, it wouldn’t deserve a look of horror like _ that. _It’s not even nasty anymore. The red and ragged parts have settled down from bloody crimson, there’s only a hints of the spidery swelling, the poison that leaked into your veins.

“_Fuck _ . Shit. Christ, Brian, that’s—you—you _ just _got bit?” 

You emit another sound you hate, like a strangled giggle. Man, not-telling-people has really, uh, really been getting to you, you realize. You normally tell everyone _ everything. _“Yep! ‘Swhy it’s not in my job application.” 

This is barely a joke, and it doesn’t land. You force your tone down, box it back into normal range. “Um, not _ just _bit though. A couple weeks ago.” 

“A couple weeks ago,” Patrick echoes, late and hollow. 

“Uh-huh. So I’m kinda new to the game, Pat Gill.” Fuck shit jeez, how many ways can you try and fail to smile? Your face must be on a real journey. “You’ll hafta teach me the lingo.” 

“Holy shit,” he breathes, and closes his eyes against this statement, and then as if that isn’t enough barrier between you two, he puts his hands over them, across his brow, tangled in a bit of his hair. 

You wait, a beat, uncertain, nervy. You’re trying hard not to think about how big his hands are. 

Gosh, maybe this—maybe you’ve done something awful, coming to work? Pat would know, wouldn’t he? Maybe it’s bad, to be around people, or other werewolves, when you just got turned. Maybe it’s gauche? Or dangerous. Or maybe baby werewolves are just annoying. Wouldn’t it just figure, if you’re too young to do the fun stuff. You’re used to that, from baby-brothering. 

_ What if he wants to ask me out_, your brain buzzes and you swat it away,  
_ what if we’re supposed to fight to the death _ hums back,  
and nono, no, _ no. _Stoppit. Stop being silly. You got a pamphlet and it didn’t talk about death-matches. 

(...although it also didn’t talk about greetings.) 

“So...assuming I know nothing, um, how do I greet you?” you prompt, and smile, and stiffness settles out of your back a little, because you’re no longer the only, because you, because he— 

well, because you’re a big ol’ doofus, but at least this time you have half an excuse for it. 

“God. I didn’t mean to—I’m so fucking sorry,” Pat sighs, and the face-hand, in its knobby-knuckled largeness, shifts to pinching the bridge of his nose. “I really shouldn’t—you’ve got enough to deal with without my bullshit—”

“Does it hurt?” 

“_What? _” 

“Is it like, a secret handshake? Or do I have to like slash my palm? Teach me the moves, Pat Gill. I’m good at choreo, promise promise.” You stand, wiggle your hips a little, shoot some jazz hands. Jazz hands have never steered you wrong before, in the flirting department. 

Pat gives a little half-surprised laugh and takes his hands away from his face. “No it doesn’t—I just—” he coughs. “Um. We usually uh. Smell each other. Just to like. Establish the parameters.” 

“You’re asking if you can smell me,” you say, careful, just to confirm. 

“Y’know, in retrospect I’m sorry I—this is _ definitely _not how HR would want me to handle this—” Pat bites his lip. “Can we just—” 

“Does HR know you’re a werewolf?” 

“No.” 

Pat shoots you a look. It’s, ooh, jeez, it makes the, the hair stand up. On the back of your neck. 

(It seems like it _ should _ be a nervous look, a warning, a shot of fear that he’s divulged too much to you, that you could really blow up his spot. But it’s not. It’s just a look, an eyebrow-raised, almost a...almost a scoff. Like and _ oh I dare you to try and rat me out, you little newbie. _)

Something feral zaps and stirs in the cradle of your chest, up the center of your breastbone and trickling out, fast-flowing, to your arms. Oh gosh, oh gee, oh golly you can’t, you _ really _can’t be allowed to feel like this at work. 

“Y-you can smell me, Pat Gill,” you say, and grin like it’s a joke, like it doesn’t sound half-feeble, awkward, tentative. You find you’re, you’re tipping your head back? Is that...is that part of the joke? It is, you decide, and lean into it, flip your hair and smile wide. “If you uh. Teach me how to smell you back? If that’s the thing I’m supposed to do.” 

“Are you sure?” Pat’s voice drops a bit. 

Look, you’ve got no sense at all, but when a hot boy asks you like _ that _, you know what to do. 

“Oh yeah! Go for it.” 

Pat moves immediately. Advances on you,  
but not straight-on; he comes around, deliberately, from the side. Rests an arm,  
an arm behind you and one, one on your, your wrist,  
and he’s _ touching _ you,  
and his face is close, closer than faces should normally be,  
the degree of closeness conventionally reserved for, for  
for vicious whispered threats or possibly for coming in for a kiss. 

Honestly, it feels kind of like both of those things, at once. 

He inhales long and deep, not against your skin but close enough you _ feel _it, feel the rush of air leaving your proximity, you feel its absence. You don’t think you’ve ever been smelled before. Maybe by a girlfriend? Maybe a girlfriend’s pressed her nose against your neck, commented on some ill-conceived dot of prom cologne, but surely— 

surely you shouldn’t be thinking about girlfriends, about the places they’ve touched you, not _ now _, not in this moment, not when Patrick is pressing up against you— 

and it’s too easy to imagine what he’d be like pressed up against you in bed, curling around you—soft-haired and dark-eyed like your high school girlfriend, gentle like her—but also long and sharp and rumbling-low, with a steely grip and a fierce jaw and dark rough stubble that would scrape along any vulnerable patch of skin— 

oh jeez. You are _ really _ janking this one up, Gilbert. Why’d you have to go and _ shiver. _

Pat coughs. “Um. You can say no. But can I…?”

The pause is loaded, question unfinished, but your answer comes thick in your throat. “Ask away.”

“Can I touch your hair?” 

“Please,” you say— 

you’re trying to be cordial, but it comes out like begging. Stupid, but fuck— 

fuck, it just sounded good, okay?

It doesn’t seem to matter, whatever you said, however you said it. Pat moves. He plunges a hand in your hair, gently pets once, twice; lets the strands slip through his fingers and then grips, pulls, tugs you just a centimeter closer, _ nuzzles _at you, almost. He’s— 

well, he’s definitively touching you, face close behind your ear, and your whole body trembles, tries to resolve dissonance, tries to pull it together, an orchestra coming in tune. 

As soon as you’ve decided you _ probably _won’t fall right down to the ground, it’s over. 

“Thanks,” Pat murmurs, and draws back, stumbles hastily. “That’s um. Gonna make my life a lot easier. Thanks for not being weird.” 

“No problem,” you say back, a little dreamily. You feel good, _ high _almost, or at least less keyed-up-anxious than you’ve been all week. Gosh, you’ve been so afraid. That Pat was gonna hate you, already hated you, was gonna angle to get you fired, was somehow already your enemy. Finally that’s melting away like wax, unsticking from your ribs so you can breathe. 

“I’ll, um. Let you get back to work then,” Pat nods, as if you’ve just had a meeting and he’s ending it with a perfunctory _ good talk. _“Unless you wanna…?” 

“Okay,” you say, immediate, stepping close. “What do I do?” 

Pat smiles, and it’s finally a normal smile, wide and big with relief, just a hint of teeth. “Oh, whatever. Just whatever feels natural. Touch, smell, you’re not gonna weird me out, okay? Some people like—it doesn’t bug them so much? But it helps me a lot to know what you smell like.” 

_ Being invited to smell a coworker _ was not on your list of onboarding tasks, but here you are. So you do it—you reach up and bury your fingertips in Pat’s hair. It’s thready-fine and smooth. You drag your thumb-and-forefinger over a few strands, twist them not-hard in your grasp. The touch makes—oh _ gosh _—it makes Pat stoop a little, drop his chin to his chest, offer himself for closer inspection, to give free reign to your weird newfound urges. 

_ Are they really that newfound, though? Or have you been wanting to do this forever. _

You try not to inspect the feeling. You just pull up on tip-toes so you can bring Pat close to your face, so you can _ smell _him. 

At first he smells just like hair, but—  
no, there’s complexity there. Shampoo of course—  
something roughly in the Old Spice family—  
probably with sandalwood?—  
and there’s office dust, and wool jacket, and plastic—  
and he must have a cat, you can smell a cat on him—  
and under it all, an earthy warm coppery smell, of sweat and warmth and blood and Pat himself. 

Fuck, god, jeez, you really want to smell more of that, to nail down _ exactly _what it is, what the precise components of scent are that will stay constant day-to-day; that will linger on the things Pat touches; the smell his bed smells like, his clothes; the smell that will persist even through shampoos and showerings and cologne and all the subtle other-smells that mask— 

oh gosh, before you know it, you’re leaning in, pressing your face straight into Pat’s skin—oh _ fuck _this is definitely not acceptable behavior—you’re certainly not supposed to press your cheek into the tendons of your coworker’s neck, not to feel the rise and fall of his stubble with his breath, the warmth, the tension of muscles holding still and the softness of him yielding. 

“Sorry,” you mutter right into his fucking collarbone, and Pat just laughs— 

it’s a warm, pleasant, comfortable sound that’s so dang close to you that you wish you could curl up in that rumble of air and sleep. 

“Sorry,” you say again, and you’re a complete dumbass but instead of pulling away you find yourself resting your head on his shoulder, like you’re slow-dancing drunk. 

“It’s fine,” he says, and wraps an arm around you in a way that’s welcoming and also tentative. “Go for it. If I’d gotten turned last week I sure as shit would need a hug.” 

“Two weeks ago,” you correct, and then because you think it’ll make him laugh again, “so I mean I’m basically over it.”

“Kids these days and your attention spans,” he parries good-naturedly back, but doesn’t let go. 

He doesn’t let go for a while. He holds you until you’ve had your fill.


	2. bicuspid

Three weeks in, you now know a few things—  
that you’re okay at scripts but trash at keeping it to three minutes—  
that Clayton is unutterably clutch—  
that you’re the only morning person on the whole video team, and therefore you get a lot of shit for laughing too loud before 10am.

But you also learn that forgiveness (or at least, toleration?) can be purchased for the price of a couple texts per week, something along the lines of

> **getting team coffee on the way in!!****  
** **want anything? **

You’re glad you have a job that makes you _ laugh _ (loudly), where the jokes are free and easy and fun and don’t ricochet off cubicles and zing by and slice off a layer of skin. You’ve had that. This is not that. This _ rules. _

The first weeks have been so good that you’ve, you’ve put out of your mind what a shitty employee you’re gonna be. How obvious, how friggin’ awkward taking sick leave exactly every twenty-nine days will be. Well, sometimes it’ll fall on a weekend? Like, about a quarter of the time? Maybe that’ll be enough to throw off suspicion.

Although, jeez, it’s going to suck that you and Pat do it at the same exact time, all the time, every time, every month— 

you glance at Patrick. He’s not far, just two desks over and on the other side of the pen. He’s looking at you, too. You smile. He gives you that strained smile back that you’d thought at first meant he was tired of you, but it turns out means he’s just _tired_. 

He’s tired, but he’s looking at you. Maybe thinking what you’re thinking, or something like it. Maybe thinking _ ugh now Brian’s gonna be taking sick leave too that’s sus as hell. _

(Pat probably wouldn’t think the word _ sus_, though. He looked at you funny, when you said it last week. He would probably think _ this little dipshit’s gonna blow up my spot,_ yeah that’s closer.)

Gosh, maybe you should just, just, just tell everyone what you, what you are. 

But then that’d—  
that might be worse, honestly. Because then they’d put it together,  
that if you’re a werewolf,  
(well, you’d probably say _ a person with lycanthropy_)  
that if you’re at person with lycanthropy,  
and if Pat takes the same sick days as you_… _

You glance down at your keyboard, try to focus not on these thoughts but on finding the source of the sticky residue (nothing major, just a _ little _tacky) that’s been bugging you all week. 

The day passes in similar intentional mundanities. You’re not very productive. You try not to look up at Pat too much. Mostly because you know your own face, and you know that tension’ll be writ across it, every time you glance over. So you don’t. 

Or you try not to. You probably fail. Because Pat— 

Pat drops by your desk at 10am. Calm, all businesslike, asks if you’d like to do the camerawork with Clayton on some new video, and you say _ sure, of course _before you even think or turn, and when you do turn— 

Patrick’s looking at you. His expression is closed, but not hostile. Intent.

It’s a long moment you spend, locked onto his microexpressions, with a focus that comes from somewhere deeper than yourself, a primal attentiveness that narrows the world around it. 

Oh gosh oh gosh this kinda—  
this thing is gonna make a professional environment pretty hard isn’t it. 

“Sorry,” Pat flits a quick smile, it flashes by, creases his eyes. “I’ll forward you the details. Just wanted to check, uh, if you’re feeling better.” 

“Yeah,” you say, taking your cue, trying to sound cool. Normal. You complained about feeling sick yesterday—because you _ did_, you felt like holy death warmed over, and you’re worse today, and you figure if you wring a half-workday out of tomorrow before the moon you’ll be darn lucky. It’s sincere whining and it’s also trying to lay a little groundwork before you piss off to go turn into a wolf on Thursday, and Pat knows that, so why’s he asking? 

“If you’re—” Pat cuts himself off. His eyes flick off you and then back, just a shiver longer than a saccade, as long as a breath, though he's breathing shallowly and fast, which is a weird thing to notice, god, focus up, Gilbert. “If you’re feeling up to it, d’you wanna grab a drink after work? Wanted to clear up a few ideas on this project.” 

“Yeah, that’d be good,” you say, immediately, and he smiles— 

oh, _ wow _ , he smiles like he’s, he’s, he’s—  
not relieved, or upset, or readying for an ugly conversation—  
nah, he just smiles like he asked you out, and he’s glad you said yes— 

crazy optimist, remember? That’s you, to the end. 

##  ⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤

“So _ shingles, _huh?” Pat leads with a nose-wrinkled smile, a low slow calm drawl that rolls over you once you’ve got a beer and he’s got a beer, and you’re settled at a rickety high-top in the half-quiet corner of the bar. 

You bury your head in your hands. “Gosh, I dunno Pat! I just—didn’t—dyou think—dyou think I should have just told people?”

“You don’t have to tell anyone,” he cuts in, quick, bridges his massive hand on the table to emphasize the point. “You never have to tell anyone what you’re sick with.” 

“I have to say _ something. _I panicked. I know that shingles is a thing!” 

“You don’t have to say anything. And you don’t—we don’t even have to talk about it, you and me, if you don’t want, I just—” a cough, a hand dragged through stringy hair, “—it can be a lot. I figured, uh. I’d give you an opening. If you wanted to ask anything.” 

You want. Oh, you want_. _But you’re oddly tongue-tied, confronted with the opportunity to get your questions answered. You twist your hair in your fingers, make a big nervous curl of it, down from your forehead, between your eyebrows. 

What should you ask? 

Definitely, you should stick to questions about how to be a werewolf, not questions like  
_ so Pat do you date boys or girls? _ _  
_ _ and if the answer is girls then how strict is your definition of girl— _

Nope nope, you’re not gonna ask that,  
and you’re not gonna scootch your stupid stool closer when you ask it,  
and you’re not gonna bury your face in the sharp crease between Pat’s neck and his unrelentingly lovely shoulders,  
and you’re not gonna breathe deep and whimper and never move until you’re told. 

Oh, jeez Louise. 

“H-how’d you get bit?” you ask, which is probably, shit, probably the most massively rude question your brain could have panic-generated. Hasty, you amend: “I mean like. You don’t have to tell me—I’m more like—um, how old were you?” 

“Ten,” he says, brushes back his hair and _ smiles_. Not widely, not truly, but close enough for government work—a smile that’s good enough for Sunday dinner with your parents. Gosh, it’s astonishing, that he can smile like that, about it, like it’s just an embarrassing memory.

You feel jealous a bit. You hope one day you can smile about it, like that. 

“I was playing in the woods. At night. Like a dumbass.” 

“Gosh,” you say. 

You know that deserves more response, but you don’t know—  
you don’t think—  
you don’t _ want _ to think about getting bit. What it felt like. How you knew when the teeth sunk in, knew in your fragile, fluttery heart, knew, inexorably, that you were about to die. How that immediate acceptance didn’t make you feel at peace or pious or powerful, didn’t trigger those _ feel-good _chemicals in your brain, didn’t send you on a nice pleasant acid trip— 

mostly, it made you wonder about whether they forgive student loan debt, when the borrower eats it?

(Or rather. Is eaten.)

And then when you didn’t die—when it didn’t—  
when it just—  
when it _ left_—  
when it _ could _ leave, when it wasn’t in some kind of blood-frenzied murdery mood—  
what did that mean, that it could _ stop,_ that it could, could stop and look at you and bite you and—  
and then _ stop_— 

“Yeah, bad luck,” Pat shrugs. “But I got to miss like a whole year of school, so that’s something.”

He’s looking at you with a half-smile, a _ don’t feel sorry for me it’s not that bad _ expression. Ah shit, he thinks your stricken face is for him, that you’re sad for _ him_, like a, a normal empathetic person. He doesn’t recognize you’re wallowing. 

You force yourself back, cut off the self-pity as close to the stem as you can. “Oh my god you were already—oh shit you were in school—that must’ve sucked_._” 

For some reason that, that image, of a kid trudging home from school with a sparkly green backpack; putting his things away and eating a cookie and watching cartoons; sitting and waiting until—gosh, what would his parents have done? They must’ve had a room for him, they _ must _have built something, got it inspected, there’s no way they would have sent him off, right?

Pat’s shrugging, in practiced unconcern. “It was fine, after I got my meds leveled off.” 

“But I bet everyone smelled like, _ all _the time,” you say, because you’re a grade-A idiot— 

you were just struck with the acrid sour-milk memory of your elementary-school cafeteria, and you can’t imagine how much more wretched that would have been in the 1080p smellovision you have now. 

You’re an idiot, but Pat laughs, big and bright and unexpected. 

You like it, that laugh, you like how earnest it was, how his eyes twinkled with mischief. You want to make it happen again. Over and over, as much as possible, ad infinitum. 

“Yeah,” he grins. “True that. High school sucked balls. _ I was a teenage werewolf _and all. Everyone stank like shit.” 

Discussion of odors leads you to happier places. You compare notes, giggle at the barest observational humor—the willowy traces of dill that drift by with Petrana, the way that rubber and salt clings to everything in the break room, no matter what. 

You drain your beer and order another. You want to shoot the shit with Pat forever, to make jokes, to ask him about being a kid, to tease him for not shaving. You want to invite him back to your place to play video games and smoke a joint, to see if weed fucks with your pre-moon meds as bad as you think it will.

You want to lean over and kiss him. 

You don’t do any of that. You stick to asking questions. He listens, and looks serious but not _ grave_, and that in itself is a blessing. He doesn’t get bothered by your clunky rude phrasing. He doesn’t pretend to know everything. He just shoots you some sage advice. Wolf to wolf. 

“Don’t say shingles, next time,” he advises, waves a hand. You suspect he's a cheap date, maybe even cheaper than you, one pint in and already his gestures have loosened up a little, become more emphatic. You can appreciate how wide the span of his fingers is. _ Oh my gosh Gilbert pay attention. _“I mean, unless—is shingles chronic? I thought—well, whatever. Pick something chronic. With like flareups. But you can’t have lupus. Lupus is mine.” 

You laugh, and he grins apologetically. 

“I mean, I guess you can have lupus. There could be two people with lupus. I didn’t even know what it was when I picked it, Brian, that’s how much of a fuckin’ moron I am. I just looked up _ chronic diseases with flare-ups _ and I thought the name was funny. ‘Cause of like loup—yeah, you get it. I thought it was _ funny. _And turns out it’s a fucking miserable disease and every month I feel guilty that I’m like—” he waves his hand, “that I’m faking it. Shit, don’t pick lupus. People with lupus have real problems. I’m just kinda a dog.” 

This drunken well of self-scorn and pontificating you find oddly charming. From it, you draw the advice you need, a little honest reassurance, and you get to touch your knees to Pat and pretend it’s ‘cause you’re feeling tipsy, and you don’t cry hardly at all. 

When you’re done not-crying, Pat reaches over,  
puts his (enormous) hand on your shoulder,  
looks you deep, so deep in the eye—  
god Patrick is going to kill you with this eye contact—  
and he tells you _ look, it’s gonna be all right. It’s not so bad. Sometimes it’s even fun. _

You hope you’ve got enough optimism in you, to believe him. 

##  ⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤

It becomes a ritual, every month. Not just the, the _ moon stuff_— 

(well, that’s a ritual in its own right, how the drugs make you slow stutter-spoken; working from home; the mumbled apologies; Laura cracking jokes about your _ monthlies _and telling you she’d rather be a werewolf than have cramps)

—the moon stuff, sure, but also the ritual of hanging with Pat. You see him all the time, at work, around work, to do work, but every month right before the moon, you grab coffee or beer or midnight tacos and hang out and it’s…different. It’s just different. You can almost hope— 

(One month, Pat takes you to a place that sells ice-cream-cookie sandwiches, and he’s so apologetic about the wait, the cost, it’s utterly _ ridiculous_. 

> “There’s gonna be a line.”  
“That’s cool.”  
“Like a _ long _ line.”  
“That’s fine, Pat! That means it’s good.”  
“Well, I dunno—I mean _ I _ like it, but I’m probably just as big a dipshit as everyone else—” 

You laugh at his face, for being such a goofus, and you tell him so, and he elbows you and grumbles _ last time I take YOU out for ice cream. _

This is a joke, but you get half-nervous he’s kidding on the square. So you make sure— 

(as you step up on the curb and spread your arms grandly he makes a very cute worried face) 

you make sure to tell me that _Patrick if this mango-matcha-filled-strawberry-chip cookie thing is only for bougie dipshits, then you are definitely a bougie dipshit, because it is fabulous!_

He says _ God, Christ in heaven _ and drags you away from the line of people you could theoretically be offending, and he’s laughing at you and at himself, and his eartips are red, and he’s tugging you _ hard_, and you feel incandescent, illuminated.)

(Another month, Pat’s feeling a bit down, he says. You're surprised he says it—  
you feel an odd little shear in the tissue of your heart, a jerk along its ley-lines, that he—  
that you have, somehow, blind and brutishly, made your way into the small circle of people Pat trusts enough to tell that to. He doesn’t deal many people into that game. 

So he’s feeling down, and he asks would you, would you be up for just coming over and eating pizza and playing video games? Instead of going out. 

You are, of course, up for it; nothing has ever sounded so wonderful; but you hesitate a beat on the phone and he takes it for hesitation of spirit, wrongly, terribly, and starts to backtrack

> “No, no, Pat I’d love—that’d be great! I just want to ask, like, a quick Q?”  
“Shoot.”  
“Are you looking for like, high-energy cheer-me-up happy times BDG? Or more of a hey, yo, chill vibes let’s just relax I know where to get weed BDG.”  
“_Do _ you know where to get weed?” (He sounds skeptical).  
“Nope! I mean, I don’t know like, like where to get it on the_street _ Pat. I just get weed from Jonah. He’s a musician. He’s always got weed.”  
“...so what I’m hearing is that you do, in fact, know where to get weed.”  
“Is this—are you asking me to bring you a joint, Pat? Totally. Can do. Easy.”  
“_God _ yes. I knew it was worth the trouble of befriending a millennial.”  
“Pat, you’re definitely also a millennial.”  
“My knees suggest otherwise.”  
“So circling back, was that a go on _ keep-a-lid-on-it Brian _ ? Or, uh, more like _ chatter-at-me-to-distract-me Brian _ ? I just don’t mean to—”  
“I just want _ you_, Brian,” he says, easily, like you’re being silly— 

and your whole entire heart stops and skitters off the tracks, crashes through the brush, right into the orphanage, a massive tragedy, flames to the sky, no survivors—

> “...you okay?”  
“Yup! Just um, rooting around to find rolling papers. I’ll be over in twenty!”)

—you almost can bear to hope. 

  
  


There’s more of these, these little date-not-dates with Patrick. It becomes part of the rhythm of living in New York for you, like the rhythm of the subway and the rhythm of trading showers between three people with one bathroom and the rhythm of the moon. 

Surviving, you’re surviving, and parts of it are _ dreadful_—  
you mean that literally, as in, inspiring dread—  
monthly dread, and horror, and frustration, that you have to, to—  
to inconvenience Laura or Jonah or whoever’s on deck to mind you this time— 

—parts of it are dreadful, but parts of it are lovely. You look forward to. The parts with Pat. 

_ Sometimes it’s even fun, _ he’d said to you, and then he'd made it so. He made this, this warm happy nervous feeling in you. He did it on purpose. Whether he’s, he’s flirting or he’s crushing or he’s just a really friggin' good guy, he looked at you and saw someone on the brink of something and thought _ well I can’t fix shit, but I can fix this. _

So every month, you look forward. You get to see Charlie. And make a fool of yourself playing Dark Souls. And make Pat laugh, and flirt, and crush, and ask questions you couldn’t ask anything else. 

##  ⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤

Half-a-year past, you’re just starting to get comfortable, with Polygon, with your meds, with owning a car in New York, the whole shebang. There’s nothing left to get trained on, equipment-wise, and you’re pitching your own video series, and you’re— 

you're not _ back to normal _ and you’ll never be, but you're, you’re  
you’re close enough. You’re ready to court some fresh new chaos. 

So this month, you text Pat early. 

> **drinks? **   
_Sure. Where?_

##  ⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤

The place you pick isn’t a dive but it isn’t really _ nice_, either. There’s tapas and such, but you wave Pat down when he glances at the cocktail menu. 

“Maybe order us some food? But I got a friend who works in the kitchen—she’ll just bring us, like, the dregs of the sangria batches for free. If you want?” You hesitate, not sure whether this offer makes you look cool and well-connected, or just grossly cheap.

Pat doesn’t look grossed-out, though. He grins. “Sick. Thanks for the hookup.” 

“I mean, you’re welcome to _ also _ buy me a fourteen-dollar drink,” you say, and you know it’s cocky, to double down when you were already ahead, but you’re, you’re like that. “I love a man with money.” 

Pat cocks an eyebrow, still smiling, puts the menu down. He tilts his attention towards you like he’s contemplating you, placing you. You feel heady, though you're not even one sip in yet, daring enough to kick at it a little, this tension you’ve got going. 

It takes a few more kicks before it cracks. 

But eventually, eventually_, _when the wine and the chatter has loosened Pat’s shoulders a bit, he— 

oh _ shit _he— 

he scoots over, in one loping move that covers all the curving span of this strange little wraparound booth you're seated in; a transition so smooth it’s like he’s been calculating it for minutes, deciding how best to get at you, deciding if he dares; and now he’s gone and done it and—  
he’s wrapped around you,  
or at least his arm is,  
and gosh, Pat Gill's arms are a serious force to contend with.

You feel your heart rabbit ahead, you feel him breathe, feel the tension, smell it on him, the nerves, and you tumble on— 

“So what’re your plans for the night?” you cut him off just as he's opening his mouth, oops. 

You cut off whatever smooth line or self-deprecating joke was a-comin', and you honestly can't even say you're sorry. He coughs. His thumb rubs your shoulder. “Is this okay?” he mutters. 

"Mmmhmmm!" 

Oh gosh you're just, you're like _ purring _at him, good lord, and grinning stupidly and letting yourself drift a bit in the smell of him, in the feeling of his chest against your shoulder. 

Purring doesn’t quite meet the bar of enthusiastic consent, though, so you try to, to remember how to form words. “It’s very okay, Pat Gill. What’re your intentions?” 

“They’re currently in development,” he murmurs, and it thrills you that you can hear it, so quiet, rumbling in his chest. There’s a beat, like he’s working up to something, you feel the breath in his chest pause, collect, feel him push himself over the edge. “Wanna come back to mine?” 

“Yes,” you say, immediately, and you turn, and you kiss him. 

You _ meant _ it to be—  
well, fun, quick, impulsive, lil tipsy—  
a peck on the lips that he can interpret how he wants  
but that makes, at least, _ your _goals clear for the night. 

That’s what you’re shooting for, but you miss it. You lose the plot, because you’re kissing him and you’re just so _ hungry _for it, for his skin, his smell, for being close and warm and wild, and your heart races in a weird feral way that means you probably should’ve taken two blue pills this morning, surely it shouldn’t be good for you to be this uncalm this close to the moon— 

you get lost, and then you go to break away and he doesn’t _ let _you. 

His hands got into your hair somehow, got tangled there, and you feel his arm against your back, his fingers, his stubble on your face, and he’s kissing into you determinedly and maybe _ you _ were hungry for it but you think he’s hungry for it too. Maybe _ he _didn’t take his little blue pills this morning either. Maybe you’re both drunk and daring and bold and a little stupid. 

Two idiots kissing, that’s what you are, and it feels fucking raucously good. 

When he lets you, lets you go, lets you breathe again— 

(you waste all your next breath sighing longingly like a total nerd,  
like you’re easy like the thing you’re saddest about in the world is that it’s socially unacceptable to drop down to your knees in the middle of a restaurant and go to town on someone’s cock. Jeez Louise Gilbert, way to not hold anything back.)

—when you breathe again, you find he’s staring at you, that wild intense stare. He’s looking at you and smiling dark and happy, like you’re something he’s stolen and he’s just gotten somewhere far away enough safely consider his prize. 

“Let’s go,” he murmurs, but you’re the one who slides out of the booth first. 

##  ⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤

Somehow you survive the subway,  
(which is rankly unsexy always, and it's a special boner killer when you can smell not just urine but all the _ specific _ urines of everyone who’s ever been peeing there, ew ew ew)  
you survive, even though the dank wet cold air buffets you,  
brings with it a sort of nauseated realism,  
a doubling back to the drunkenly shattered barriers between you,  
a picking-through of the shards. Dangerous. 

“I shouldn’t be hitting on you,” Pat said softly, as you wait for the train. It rushes over you hot and cold with nerves and fears and unwelcome sobriety. 

“Why?” you flip back, innocently—  
no, not innocently. Coquettishly? That might be the opposite of innocently. And it’s certainly the opposite of innocently, when you take his hand, and instead of holding it you pull, slip a pair of his fingers into your front pocket. 

He takes the bait at once and tugs you closer. 

“Because I _ want _you,” he says, voice strained, tendons of his neck pulled tight, as if he’s trying to pull away—but at the same time, you feel his thumb edge up over the waistband of your jeans, slip under the elastic, touch your skin. 

“That’s not a good reason to not hit on me,” you say archly.

“I forgot what I was saying,” he mumbles, and smiles like it’s a joke. 

You laugh and grip at his hand on your hip, press it in close. 

“You were saying you’re sleeping with me tonight. No take-backsies.” 

He snorts, and curls you closer, and you just think _ yes yes yes the optimist wins again. _

##  ⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤

Pat's place is tiny, you know this,  
you know that it’s really just an entrance straight into a kitchen  
and a nook too small for a couch  
(that has one crammed in it anyway)  
and then two bedrooms like matchboxes—  
you’ve been here enough to know that Pat has the smaller room but the bigger window, and you know Pat well enough to know he thinks he got the better deal. 

“What’s on the table, handsome?” you say, stepping in the doorframe, but don’t stop to see if it lands. You push in, throw yourself on the couch, sit back, spread your knees, try to look inviting, invited. 

He follows you, and stands between your knees— 

_ Pat’s eyes are pretty_, is what your goofy flirty brain thinks, instead of something useful— 

he bends close, bends over, gets his hands on either side of your head. They’re burning, in that way they do. You tilt up, ready for kissing, but he doesn’t— 

no, he grips your chin firmly, instead, tips it up. Your breath catches and settles in your throat. There are only two fingers touching you, two long slim fingers, but you feel pinned. Like your game is up, and you weren’t even _ running _a game, that you knew of. 

He’s licking his lips. You want to, too. 

“_God _I want to fuck you,” he says—bold and promising beginnings!—but he lists back away from you, turns. “I shouldn’t. It’s too—I’m not—I’m not—” 

You dare to curl your leg around his waist. “But what if you _ were_, though.” 

“We’re nuts. From the moon. _ One _ of us needs to think straight— ” 

“Loony would be better,” you say without thinking. “Right etymology.”

He snorts. It’s fond. “Well fine, but clearly—”  
he bends down over you, tilts your head up, captures your mouth, kisses the air out of you and he tastes like fire and wine and he leaves you _ wanting_, fuck, why is it always like that  
“—clearly we’re both pretty fucked up. What’re you on, even? Meds-wise.” 

“I refuse—”  
you pause to drag your lips up his face, not a kiss even really but you have him by the collar and you’re not going to miss the opportunity  
“I refuse to try to pronounce pharmaceuticals while we’re making out, Pat Gill,”  
hell at least you can prove to him (and you) that five-syllable words aren’t out of the range of possibility right now—  
that you’re definitely good, it’s good, let’s _ go_—  
“but I should probably take another dose. After. After you fuck me.” 

You don’t want to be out of it, muzzy-headed, not for this. You’d rather be wild and stupid and brave, drunk and confident and dragged along by every smell but especially the ones that cling to Patrick. 

“Well, all right then,” he says, soft, indulgent, and reaches down again, kisses you, while his hands creep up the sides of your thighs, find their way under your ass. You throw your arms around his neck by instinct,  
and as if his instincts align he lifts you—  
oh gosh oh _ golly _ he’s strong, to lift you like that—  
and you wrap your legs around and he’s holding you, inelegant but firm, and carries you the five steps into his bedroom with little grace but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter at all. 

  
  


Later, you won’t remember all the specifics. It’s, it’s sort of tragic. In your worser moments you cry about it, that it’s not in your memory forever, that it pressed in like a wax seal, crimson and ridged with detail and crushingly temporary. You’ve lost— 

—you know he undressed you, he stripped you, he peeled you like a present, not fast, careful, coming at you slow and hungry and uncertain like a dessert he was planning to savor— 

—you know he kissed down the lines of your body, while you squirmed and writhed, and whenever you bucked too hard he splayed on your skin a broad warm hand and said _ be good, Brian _ and you tried so, so hard to obey— 

—you know you felt different, because of the moon, not floaty heady drunk, that you felt the most, the most, _ oh fuck dear God my gosh please yes_, the most specific, the most _ embodied _touches of pleasure, while his mouth was on you, like you could feel every cell and atom of your shivering self and how he, magnetic, courted them, drove them toward himself lovingly— 

—you know you were a good boy, after, and jumped up quick to clean up both of you, that’s kinda your _ thing, _you try to do that— 

—you know Pat asked you, when you tumbled back into bed after you took your meds, he smiled warm and welcoming at you and said “Spoon or be spooned?”— 

—and you know you said “That sounds like the question of a man who needs spoonin’, Pat Gill!”— 

—you’re not sure who ended up holding whom, though. You’re not sure what happened after that. You’re not sure if you talked, or cuddled, or slept, or heck, if you fucked again, an encore to a much-awaited performance where the audience just couldn’t be tamed. 

You don’t remember getting untangled, in the morning. 

You don’t remember if you talked, if you asked  
(surely you asked?),  
if this was just a, a one-time thing?

  
  


You wake up some uncountable time later, feeling like you have a six-day hangover—  
you’re being dramatic, it’ll be two days at most—  
and grab your phone to text Laura to be let out of your room when it’s convenient. 

There’s a text already there: 

> _ Hope your moon went well _ _  
_ _ Or at least okay _ _  
_ _ Hit me up if you feel like hanging out this week _ _  
_ _ But I also get it if you don’t feel like it _

“You’re a class act, Pat,” you say to your phone, to no-one, smiling alone in your room, and you sit up cross-legged in your boxers and text back three hearts and two places you could go for coffee and one very heartfelt _ thank you_. 

##  ⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤

You rendezvous over coffee, some two days later, and things are blessedly

(hatefully)

normal. You’re frazzled and exhausted because that’s how it is, and you just can’t tell if Pat’s looking at you a little longer than usual, like waiting to take a cue from you, like he’s got his next line of dialogue on the tip of his tongue and it’s you, you who’s forgotten the script. 

Pat and you swap cat stories and sympathy about aches and pains,  
try not to talk about work (and fail),  
and he’s warm and cheery and wonderful,  
and you spend like fourteen agonizing minutes trying to figure out how to ask _ hey Pat are we like dating now? _ without the heartbreaking implication that,  
that if you talked about it, if you’ve done this, um, before, well—  
gosh, you really don’t want to think about what Pat’s expression will do,  
when you tell him you don’t remember. 

You’ve almost, almost worked up the nerve to ask, when he shifts a little, and your hands touch on the table. He curls his pinkie around yours. You do the same, back to him, gently, lean into his little pinkie-hug, oh my god you’re so happy, he’s so cute, this is so _ cute _, oh my god you really might possible might actually be dating Patrick Gill. 

It’s easy to feel yourself warming, lightening, the conversation opening you up like a flower to the sun. You’re happy to be touching Pat, so happy that you half-forget what you were talking about, what advice you were looking for, what question you were half-ass-way through asking. 

“I forgot what I—oh! Oh I remember. Uh, have you ever checked yourself into one of those uh, like clinics?”

Pat nearly spits out his mouthful of almond-whatever-coffee. “_Fuck _no, that’s like eight hundred dollars minimum.”

“Yeah, capitalism’s a bitch. Shit. I just wanted to know what it’d be like. D’you know anyone who has?”

“Are you doing that, next time?” Pat asks, shepherds his tone a little. “I mean, I’m sure they’re real nice. Probably better than just getting locked in your bedroom or wherever. Is that—are you thinking about it?” 

“I have to,” you sigh, and push your hair back. “Both my roommates are gonna be out of town.” 

Pat slants his mouth in sympathy. “I’d offer to pinch-hit but uh, I’m gonna be indisposed, so…”

“Yeah,” you laugh. “You’re busy, and they’re busy, and I’m not gonna drive all the way to North Carolina and bug my mom.” 

“Is there anyone—” Pat hesitates. “Does anyone else know?” 

“Not yet,” you say, braver than you feel, because yeah, you’re resolved to tell a couple other friends one day maybe, but certainly not _ today _ and certainly not followed up by _ and yeah do you want to babysit me please just sign this legal document and also you need to have a will. _“Nope, you’re on the short list, Patrick, of people who know what the fuck is up with me. 

He purses his lips. It’s cute, that he’s trying so hard, thinking about how to fix this. “You probably wouldn’t trust a friend of a friend, huh.” 

You pause, think about it, shake your head. “Nah. That’s not like, allowed I think? And I’d be too worried, anyway. Like, what if something goes wrong?” 

Pat shrugs, bites his lip, in something like uncertainty. He’s probably going to suggest someone  
(Simone, maybe? you’re half-half-sure that Simone knows about Pat, or at least has guessed)  
and you get ready to turn it down, to say no thanks, that you’re a New Yorker now sometimes you just gotta pay nearly a grand for something stupid, you get a joke ready about how it’s cheaper than your parking space—

“If you want,” he says, slow, fixing you with that unholstered stare of dangerous intensity. “You could come hang out with my pack. Instead.” 

You suck a breath—  
oh jeez oh fuck oh god—  
(his _ pack? _is Pat really, has he been, is he

“_What?” _is all you manage to say, but it’s sharp enough he winces. 

“No pressure,” he starts to say, but fuck that this is—  
what the fuck Pat— 

“You run _ feral _ every month—??” it tumbles out of you before you even think about it, before you even can imagine, can decide if you _ want _ to soften it, “—like, fucking _ killing _people?” 

Pat’s let go of you now, brought his hands back to himself, drawn in, tight, to his lap. “No.” he says shortly. You don’t let him get further. You’re standing, you find. 

“But you’re just out in the _ wild_.”

“Not exactly. And we—”

“What the fuck does 'not exactly' mean, Patrick.”

“It’s not the wild. We’re contained. And we—”

“_Where? _” you push. “Is it legal?” 

He looks uncomfortable, probably ‘cause you’re making a scene—  
maybe he doesn’t like his secrets screeched loudly all over this Brooklyn coffeeshop—  
maybe ‘cause he’s confessing to you a felony—  
or maybe he’s fucking _ feeling guilty about murdering people— _

“Hey,” he says, reaches out to you, his voice quiet and gentling “Look I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—I should have told you. Before. It’s safe. We’re careful. We’ve never bi—hurt anyone. I swear. We keep—” 

“How do you even _ know?? _” You draw back from his reaching hand

“Let me explain somewhere—not here,” Pat says, grimaces. “Although I know it’s my fault we’re in public anywa—”

“Get the _ fuck _ away from me,” you spit, and shove your chair in  
(people turn back to their laptops,  
your fight has gotten mundane, you suppose,  
insufficiently dramatic for New Yorkers)  
and leave, and don’t even make it back to your car before you burst into tears. 

  
  


> _ how was your date brother mine? _
> 
> **not a date. **
> 
> _ >:[ bad??? _ _  
_ _ ill murder him _ _  
_ _ ill kick him to the moon _ _  
_ _ did you even talk about it? _
> 
> **no** **  
** **its complicated.** **  
** **just leave it okay**
> 
> _ you sure? _
> 
> **for today** **  
  
**


	3. carina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NOTE**: this chapter contains explicit sex, and intravenous drug use.

By the time you get home, your tears are, your mouth is dry. You yank the car into park with more force than is necessary and sit in it, drained, unmoving. 

You hate this part. The melodrama of stomping off felt easy, natural, automatic, but your body’s unsettled now, in the wake, the echo. The fuzzy creep of feelings down your back and dehydration up your throat. You feel...empty. 

_ Why’d you do this to me, Patrick_. 

He didn’t do anything to you, though. Didn’t do anything—  
anything but treat you kindly, and be a friend, and answer all your questions, and touch you where you most wanted, and make you shriek in eager orgasm—  
cool cool, brain, great time to remember that bit—  
he didn’t do anything to you. 

You permit yourself a minute to languish in, in, not in _ memories _exactly. Kind of. It’s not coherent thought. Just body memories, sense memories. Pat’s fingertips on you, skating up your sides. They were smooth. He called you beautiful, you think. 

It just, it sucks, that you can’t remember—  
_ he touched you, kissed it, the soft scarred skin of your forearm, you think— _ _  
_ the uncomfortable punch of that thought doesn’t feel like memory—  
_ sucking at your skin, leaving it dark and red— _ _  
_ it feels like a construction, a dream, too relevant, too clear, betraying unreality—  
you’re imagining it, probably, what it would feel like, him deepening that kiss, sucking with his teeth, holding your arm firm in his grip, his hair spilling over your skin in dark soft waves as he—  
_ he bites you _. 

You jerk your sleeve up. 

You’re _ fine, _you’re fine. No marks. Some scar tissue, sure, but old. From when, when you were bitten. Nothing new. You’re imagining things. 

Some minutes later, you grab your phone and open a text to Pat. 

Then you close it again. You move, instead. 

Out of the car and across the street and up the stairs and through a terse two-word blow-off to Laura and into your room and onto your bed and into a wretched curled-up mass. 

It’s a bit—  
it’s after seven, when you pull out your phone again. You think you’ve been sleeping. You should eat. Then you should call Pat, and apologize maybe, or maybe grill him for answers, or maybe call the cops, or maybe just throw your phone in the toilet and never talk about it again. 

The problem is Pat would totally do that. Not the toilet part. But like, he would, if you, he would, if you didn’t want to _ deal with this _, he’d just be normal. He’d take your cue. If you wanted distance and silence and no explanations— 

and you know he has explanations, you _ know _ he does, you just didn’t let him— 

you didn’t want to hear them— 

but you’re sure he has them. Patrick looked so, so rattled when you told him, when he found out you’d just been bit. Like he was shocked, and sad, and sorry 

(_ guilty? _)

like he’d do anything to help you. 

Fuck. 

You really bone-zoned this one. _He’s _the expert here, he’s been a wolf forever. Maybe bending the laws a bit on safety is totally common? And you reacted like a nerd who just saw someone with a joint at prom. Maybe everyone’s out there doing cool wolf stuff, every moon. That wouldn’t mean every wolf is like a, a serial killer, biting kids for fun

_ (...yah lucky there’s no nerve damage, _ someone drawled in the ER. _ Avoided it pretty good. Could’ve taken yah whole arm off if it had a mind to._)

Why it didn’t have a mind to, you couldn’t ask, sunk down deep in that good IV painkiller juice and feeling the moon throb through your veins for the, the first time. 

You asked later, your social worker. Why you weren’t dead. 

(_Maybe it was interrupted. _ Her tone is flat, pleasant, unplausible. _ Heard a howl and went to join back with the pack? _

_ There were two more right there, _ you press. _ With it. They all were. Together. _

_ You said you didn’t remember much. _She’s peering at you. You shrug. She’s right. Your memory is spotty. Maybe you imagined it, the others, how they let go and left you. How they jumped and licked. Playing, like they were playing. Maybe this is, is, an invention of your mind. Your fear chemicals overlaid happy memories of Moose, fluffy curly tangles, to soothe you, to wipe out the truth of whatever happened, whatever stroke of fate saved your ass. 

_ Do you think they were just fucking with me? _

You mean playing, but she takes it different, frowns and nods. 

_ It’s possible you were bitten intentionally, yes _ . _ There are rumors that some gangs in the area hunt like that. For sport._) 

You feel sick and also longing. It might be just that you’re so hungry you’re nauseous. 

When you take your phone out again, your gut lurches, but you want it, you just want it, you just want this out of you, whatever it is. And Pat’s not gonna, he’s just not, he’s not gonna push unless you want it, and you don’t want it but fuck you don’t not want it as bad as you made it look back there in that coffeeshop. 

You’re not _sorry. _

You were—you’re afraid, you don’t unfeel that. But you want to be talked at. 

> **okay ** **  
** **i’m mostly done freaking out** **  
** **can you explain**

As you thumb the messaging app closed, you wince. It’s almost midnight. How have you spiraled for _this long. _Pat’s probably asleep, or close enough to that he’s not answering texts.

If he, he reads this in the morning—maybe you should add something funny. Just so he knows that you, you _ want— _

> **also thanks for paying for my coffee** **  
** **i presume** **  
** **unless you dine and dashed**

You hope that’s enough of a joke to make it not so—  
oh, gosh _ Pat is typing _ —

> _ I wouldn’t dash anywhere just to save $2 _
> 
> **ok so thats obviously a lie ** **  
** **that coffee was more than two dollars** **  
** **this is new york**

The next message is long and comes almost instantly. So Pat had it pre-typed, or mostly so. 

> _ I am so sorry for coming at it like that. That was really unkind and I just didn’t think before it popped out of my mouth. Yes, I run with a pack, and yes, it’s illegal, and also we try to keep it as safe as possible, with meds but also physical barriers too, and we’ve never hurt anyone. We would remember btw if we had. The drug we take doesn’t wipe out our memories like the FDA ones do. I can definitely explain anything more if you want. I can also never bring it up again. I’m sorry for fucking up. _

You bite your lip, tip your head back, take a long, a shuddering breath. Fuck you really _ want _to just accept this. That Pat’s safe, and good and kind and likes you, that he’s just how you want him. 

Dangerous. Bad scientific practices, to want to confirm your hypothesis so, so badly. 

> **okay ** **  
** **let’s meet up ** **  
** **and talk this out** **  
** **i mean not right this second but soon???**
> 
> _ Yes _ _  
_ _ Whenever you want _ _  
_ _ I apologize in advance for when I fuck up the talking _
> 
> **no its not you ** **  
** **can i come over tomorrow? **
> 
> _ Sure _ _  
_ _ But we can also meet at like a neutral spot if that’s better _ _  
_ _ In case you want to have a buffer _ _  
_ _ Or I can come to yours if you want to be on home turf _ _  
_ _ You can throw me out whenever _
> 
> **no im good** **  
** **i want to see charlie** **  
** **i promise i won’t throw another tantrum** **  
** **im just gonna try to understand**
> 
> _ Thank you _ _  
_ _ And it wasn’t a tantrum _ _  
_ _ You acted very validly _ _  
_ _ Is that how the kids say it _
> 
> **not quite old man**
> 
> _ Damn _ _  
_ _ Acted very valid? _
> 
> **that also feels slightly off but hard to pin down how**
> 
> _ I give up _ _  
_ _ Words are not for me _
> 
> **are you going to explain things to me in interpretive dance then**
> 
> _ NO _ _  
_ _ Being danced at by me is a fate worse than death _

A few more jokes-and-parries later, you both apologize and head to bed—  
in the thick of it all, the, the hookup part goes unaddressed—  
you let it go unaddressed. 

You’re mad at yourself, and also proud of yourself, and you suppose time will tell which is right on that front. You feel—longing, want, desire, hope—but it’s not, it’s not like it was before, not the bell-clear single-tone vibration of a tuning fork, not a pealing note of _he is what I am and_ _I like him and he likes me and if we date it will be perfect. _

No, this one has undertones, overtones, it’s thick and complicated but also, if you’re honest, its dissonance licks into you and catches on the edge of something. On your curiosity, your daring, maybe. Something promising. 

Or maybe you’re just a stupid trusting little idiot. Can’t know ‘til you try!

##  **⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤ **

You get lunch together, eventually, get sandwiches and explanations and it’s, well, it’s stiffer than usual. Guarded, you’re both guarded. But you listen. And you don’t, you don’t _ quite _ follow, exactly what weird drug regimen Pat’s putting into his body, what secret concoction he’s willing to stake his life on…but you get the gist. The regular drugs make him sick. He tried something _ experimental _ , ‘cause he heard about it, from a friend of a friend. One thing led to another, the drug worked out, he went looking for a reliable source, he got invited to a _ thing _, he liked it, he joined— 

joined a gang. Of wolves. Like you do. 

You listen, and you laugh nervously, and you—  
leave, not in a huff this time, just in a nervous mood—  
you leave and go home and google a bunch of pharmacological shit—  
then you go to work, and you write and film and edit and bat back at Pat’s jokes and goof around with Simone and jump up when Tara calls you and act normal—

and eventually you check into the absurdly pricey government facility that is basically the world’s most expensive shitty motel. But windowless, and with the locks on the outside. 

You take your drug cocktail, and you lie down, and you fall into nothingness. 

##  ** ⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤ **

(_ It was totally fine, _ you tell Laura, on the phone, the next morning. _ Super nice. Just like changing at home. I don’t remember anything—it’s basically a nice long nap. _

This is a lie a little bit, but you don’t know and you never know how to explain it to her. How it doesn’t feel like—how you just go down and you come up, so fast you don’t even notice the blip of time—how your body clicks off like a light—how you wake up so goddamn _ tired _, like you’ve run a marathon—and you’re itchy all over—and sick, you usually puke, sometimes a few times, you’ve tried not eating before but then it’s worse, just dry-heaving acid until the spasms wrench tears from you—you don’t remember, but it doesn’t feel like fuzzy bliss—it feels like someone beat the memories out of you with a shovel, it’s hateful, and you hate it.)

You tell Laura it was fine. 

##  **⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤ **

After that, Pat’s—normal. More than normal. You fall back easy into it, the comfortable groove of banter on the streaming couch, the handoff of footage from raw to polished, the sincere Pat-brand close-lipped smiles, complimenting you on how your work is going. Things are fine, professional, friendly, calm but not cold. Not cheery, but he’s not, he’s not like that, normally. Maybe for a fleeting moment mid-lunch break, when you catch him off-balance, he’ll be really goofy. You haven’t caught him, this month. You haven’t tried. So it’s no different.

It _ feels _different. Like you’ve changed your skin and the new one fits less well, though it serves all the old purposes. 

The moon approaches like before, the building pressure, the nerves, the blue pills, the night of sleepless sleep, unremembered, the waves of muggy exhaustion-nausea that crest and then fade. 

Pat doesn’t text, doesn’t approach. That’s fine. Good boundaries, actually. Space. 

You feel— 

you’re good. You’ve gotten used to this thing, you know how to handle it, you have a good support system. You don’t have any questions left. You’ve got your job, and your friends, and your family, and— 

you’re stable. You don’t need. 

But you _ want _—

you want things to be wild and wonderful again—  
to cleave close to danger—  
to tack into the wind—  
to stop walking on sidewalks, staying out of the shadows, jumping at every foreign noise of some creeping thing in the dark—  
some creeping tiny thing that’s smaller and less dangerous than you. 

Why are you afraid? You’ve already been caught. 

So when Patrick doesn’t come find you, next moon, you go find him. 

##  ** ⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤ **

You’re not the shy blushing newbie you once were. 

“Hey Pat,” you drawl, right in the middle of the bullpen, right in the middle of the day. “Can I take you out sometime?” 

He blinks, and stares at you (and so does Simone) and opens his mouth, and closes it again. 

“Sure,” is what he comes up with, and the extra two seconds it took him to scour off any rough edges of his tone are enough, you’re sure, to confirm the question Simone’s arched eyebrow is asking. “Where you wanna go?” 

“Dinner,” you say, because it’s a step up, up from coffee or from drinks or from lunch or from bar-arcades. You’re ready for stepping up. You’re feelin’ your oats, and you want Pat to fuck you again, and then again after _ that _ , enough times that there’s gossip, that there’s rumors, you want to _ start _ some rumors, enough rumors that you have to _ talk _about it, about whether you’re a thing. And maybe talk about what crimes, exactly, Pat’s engaging in every month and how many of them are felonies. 

You may have your priorities somewhat backwards. 

##  **⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤ **

You can’t pull smooth booth moves, ‘cause you get seated at a table, but you can play footsie with uncommon focus and stare at Pat’s eyes a lot. And his hands. His hands are just, stupidly gorgeous. You wonder if his paws are also extra long? Does that kind of thing carry over? 

“So, Pat Gill, where are you going this moon?” you cut right into it, as soon as you’re remotely settled. 

“Same place as usual,” he says, and it’s pitched low. Probably just because he’s worried you might yell at him in public again. The tone, though, it rolls up your back like a wave nonetheless. 

“Where’s that?” 

Pat hesitates, but you’re smirking for all you’re worth, trying to telegraph enough lightness to relax his shoulders a bit. “It’s gonna sound a little TMNT if I say ‘underground,’ isn’t it.” 

You snort. _ That’s _unexpected. That’s not, not what you were envisioning at all. You figured he went upstate somewhere, somewhere with space to run and maybe even hunt some deer. You read a trip report like that, about hanging out in the forest after taking the new drugs up from Mexico. The ones that keep you sane, allegedly. That let you remember. 

“So you’re a city wolf,” you comment. “Hanging in the sewers. Do you hunt rats?” 

“No. Gross,” Pat grimaces. His foot shifts against yours. “We usually order pizza.” 

You laugh again, because it’s so on-brand, and ask “So do you go by Donatello then, or…?” and his face is fake-chagrined as he mutters _ some people use nicknames but I just go by Pat _and it makes you laugh harder, and he smiles that you’re laughing at him, grins really, sheepish and goofy, with his tongue tucked in the corner of his mouth— 

he missed, you, you think. He likes making you laugh. 

“LARPing is more fun than it sounds,” Pat sniffs, dry and fake-defensive, before he slides out of the joke. “But yeah. It’s underground. Abandoned subway platform—we couldn’t climb out if we wanted to. But we don’t want to, so.” He shrugs, flits a look at you. 

You’re sure your face is doing something pretty intricate. You’re, you’re dealing with it, with the idea of Pat, running wild and free, tooth and claw— 

well, c’mon, let’s be honest, there’s probably not that much _ running _space in subway tunnels. This isn’t some idyllic romp, slipping soundless on padded feet between moonlit trees, stalking a deer and bringing it down, fresh meat and hot blood— 

_ yikes on bikes, Gilbert _. you can’t think that way. It’s too close to the moon and it gives you a strange feeling, thinking like that. Like a cut that itches, but you don’t want to scratch, to tear it. You’re trying to itch around it. To see if it helps, somehow. 

Pat’s still staring at you, through your long silence. Cautious, he’s cautious, but clearly inviting your questions. 

“How do you know you don’t want to. To get out.” 

“The new drugs are...pretty great, actually.” He brushes his hair out of his face. “It keeps your mind. You stay _ awake _. It’s, like, fun. We mostly, uh. Play-wrestle. And then take a nap. It’s a whole…kinda puppy pile vibe. It’s chill. I actually—” he hesitates, but pushes on. “I always used to hate it but. Um. Nowadays I look forward to it.” 

He shoots a little smile at you that, cheeks touched pink for a second as if he’s shy to admit it—  
it takes you right down and out of your body, drains everything from you besides a starry glint of warmth, girdling your belly tight. Shit, _ what _, exactly, about this was making you uncomfortable…? 

_ The part where he could fucking murder someone, _a jolt comes up, from your fear-frigid brain— 

the terror is reasonable, smart, even, but—  
but you’ve caught yourself on Pat’s scent, and you can’t stop thinking—  
_ god, what I would do to run with him. _

“Can you get me some,” you hear yourself say. 

He blinks at you, and grins. “Meds? Sure, you can—” 

“And can you come to my place. Instead.” You’re talking over him, fast, over your own thoughts, talking before you sort it. “I think...I think Jonah could watch both of us. I’ll ask him. See if he’s—well, if you want to. If you. If you can?” 

Patrick pauses—  
he might not be down for a full-moon sleepover, that might be too much—  
locked in your tiny little room instead of running wild and free—  
but you’re not gonna fucking try this for the first time in a _ sewer, _okay Pat Gill? You have limits. 

“Yeah,” he nods, eager, and reaches out for you across the table, just scootches his hand forward. “Of course.” 

You take it, squeeze once, let go. Not a handshake, but it seals the impulse anyway, sets it. You’re doing this. 

##  **⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤ **

Jonah is, as always, like _ clinically _chill, doesn’t mind at all when you ask if your werewolf friend-coworker-possibly-boyfriend can stay with you, this moon. Just shrugs and says “Sure, you’re never any trouble anyway.” 

“Are you _ positive, _” you ask again, draw close, stop your hand on the neck of his guitar because this conversation is, is a big deal, even if he just looks up and grins like it’s not. 

“Sure,” he repeats, as his fingers stop their tuning. “I mean, one wolf, two wolves, red wolves, blue wolves, it’s all the same. I assume the fire alarm plan is still _ open-the-door-and-run-like-hell? _”

“Yeah,” you smile lop-sided and he reaches over and scratches behind your ear. It started as a joke, that stuff. A way to lighten the mood, when you got glum about how shit your life was. He’d offer to give you a belly rub, a treat if you rolled over, stuff that if anyone else said it would make your eyes prick with tears but when Jonah does it it just makes you laugh. 

You’re too goddamn ticklish for belly rubs, it turns out, but it also turns out that if you goofy-joking curl up on your roommate’s lap and let him pet you, it’s...it’s nice. Maybe because you are, like, kind of a dog now? Or maybe you were always easy for someone petting you. That might just be a Brian thing. 

So anyway. Jonah’s on board. Time to clean your room. 

##  **⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤ **

Pat shows up for the moon in gym clothes, which surprises you. Black tank and black shorts, you gesture as he comes in. “Planning on getting in a workout?” 

“No,” he blushes—  
gosh, this blush is even cuter in your kitchen than it’s been in any other setting yet.  
“I didn’t know um. What you wear when you change.” 

Ooh. You hadn’t—  
ah shit, you know your eyes are doing that thing where they go surprise-wide and simple—  
okay so you _ had _thought about getting naked with Patrick again. 

The first few times, you wore clothes, but they get stretched-out and fucked-up. Why ruin any more old college t-shirts, like that? You learned to just strip. And take all the stuff off your desk, and clean the kitchen, take out the trash, rid the house of food-smells. 

You shrug, take his bag from him, and dare. 

“I don’t wear anything, usually,” you roll the flirt off your tongue, turn, leading him back to your room. “But you can wear whatever.” 

He hisses through his teeth, follows you so close you can almost feel the slow breath on your back. You sidle past the weird nook and into the doorway, gesture at your bed (it’s not _ that _messy) and start

“I can give you the tou—”

“Can I kiss you,” he breathes, the instant you step into the relative privacy of your room, and he sounds _ hungry— _

“Uh-huh.” You feel yourself smirking, which is probably unbecoming, but whatever, you know you’re insufferable whenever you’re getting what you want. 

He crashes into you, mouth-first hands close behind, gripping at you, pressing into you. You let him, let him take you, he’s been here before, he knows his way around. He knows not to let up when you whimper, that he can just squeeze you closer and fuck his tongue into your mouth and grip your head to whatever angle suits him best. 

“Gosh,” you say, when he lets you. 

“Sorry,” he mutters gruffly, so close to your face that you can feel the shifting vocal chords. “I get. Worked up. Right before. Tell me when to stop.” 

“But what if I _ don’t _,” you tease a hand up under his shirt, get your fingers at the base of his spine. He shivers like your fingers are cold, though they aren’t. “What if I like you worked up.”

“Then let me,” he growls, and shoves you against the door. 

  
  


The pleasure of being stripped rustles through you in a wave, shiver-soft and also thunderous. His hands are, are so sure, where they glide up your sides, bare your chest in one unruly move. Below follows soon after, his shoulder dips, one hand reaches, budges up bunched cloth to clutch the curve of your ass; the other snaps open your jeans and shoves in, unceremonious. 

It’s fervent, where his front hand smoothes down your skin, strips off your jeans, where his back hand squeezes and slides. His spit-licked fingers find your hole and just tease at it, warm and certain, and you hear yourself whine. 

“Not _ fair _,” you mouth into his perfect collarbones, leave your hips just where they are, encircled, controlled by him. You tug at his shirt with your teeth—emphasize—he’s bared you, in all of thirty seconds—he’s already trying to— 

He pulls back and smiles something savage. “I thought you liked me to hurry it up. _ ‘Stop fucking around, Pat Gill, and fuck me. _” 

He’s doing your voice. Your heart jolts a moment and— 

“You were torturing me on _ purpose _ ,” you moan, as the memory snaps into existence where none was before. “You said you’d go down on me for an _ hour _.” 

“And I meant it,” his voice is ragged, wet. “I would. Right now, if you want…?” 

He squeezes, just at the crease of your naked thigh, and your heart flutters. Oh god, you deserve that, you deserve to remember every swirl of his tongue, every way his fingers press into you while he coaxes you toward orgasm. But you also— 

“Come in me first,” you say, and laugh in delight at how lewd that sounds, at how his face goes from hot and dark and red to _ crimson _-bright, how his fingers twitch needily. “Then after, you can, if you still feel like it.” 

“I will,” he avers, and mouths at your neck. “_ God _I will.” 

  
  


Pat’s so long, is the ding-dang thing. He can be—_ fuck _ —can be comfortably kissing you, cradling your head, his tongue probing, filling you, while— _ fuck _ —one or two or _ three _fingers are deep and knobbly-hilted inside of you. His strong arm is hitched around and under your right leg, for better access to you, but you’re flexible—

_ fuck Pat yes oh please right there fuck more yes please— _

oh God Jonah's never gonna let you live this—

_ fuck, _but you've never been as grateful for your body as you are now, pretzeled up in Patrick's embrace, letting him work at you with nothing like precision but all the eager tender overwhelm of bare and beautiful sensation. 

Two fingers from Pat are like a cock in their own right, a slim one sure, but powerful and articulated and infinitely more talented. He glides and rubs and hitches like he’s _ searching _inside you, trying out different combinations of pressure and pace. You feel speared and helpless against his ministrations, and he swallows your moans and presses more. 

“You like it deep,” he mutters, pulling away from your mouth for a second, sounding reverent. “...there, yeah?”

_ “Fuck! _” is the best you’ve got. You’re a man of letters, but. Fuck. 

“Can’t you tell me, how much you like that?” he murmurs into your jaw, as he prods you there again, strokes, and you feel the subtle stretch of yourself around his movements. 

“More?” you try, hopeful that that might be enough. 

“More _ what _baby,” he hums into you. “More fingers? faster? harder? deeper?”

“_ Yes _.”

He chuckles at you, and sweeps his finger pads in a way that makes you, literally, squeal. “All of it, huh? Fuck you’re hot.” 

“_ Please _, fuck me,” you beg out far too loud into the stale air of your room. 

“I mean, I am,” he teases, and hilts his hand to the palm again. “What more do you want?”

“Please give me your cock,” you mewl, weakly, and you don’t know if you’re playing along, or if you’re just that desperate. 

“God. Hearing you beg is—you’re gorgeous.” He breathes heavy, rearranges so his body looms over you, fingers slick with lube and precome, stroking his dick. “I wish I could drag it out more.” 

“_ No _, Pat, fuck,” you thrash, hit at his arm with the flat of your hand, give him a good moan that hopefully he enjoys. “Why do you love to torture me, you fuck.” 

The blunt tip of him positions up against you. “Not sure. But when you beg for it, I, I...” he stutters, face loose and honest and fixed on you. Watching you want him. 

It makes him bold, how undone you are, makes his lip curl up again with confidence, a smirk. “I want to keep you hungry for my cock. Strung out for me, so you can’t speak. Just _ howling _for it.” 

You nod fervently—he pushes in, deliberate, his length filling you slow and delicious and your heels flex and try to push him faster, more, c’_ mon _Patrick you’re prepped and slick and dying for it, come on. But his pace is inexorable. 

Bit by bit he inches forward, until finally, _ finally _ he bottoms out, tucks hips against your ass, and you sigh out _ oh my god thank you _ like a prayer. 

And he just _ stays _ there, the rat bastard, moving not at all, heavy and full and thick inside you, the only movement your own squirming as you try to coax him to get this show on the road. No success. He presses your hips down firm and holds you and _ laughs _at you, and you writhe and call him a scoundrel, an absolute scoundrel, and he gives a little hiccup of a thrust that makes you whimper with need. 

“Say what you want, then,” he murmurs, and you know what you’re supposed to do—  
to bite your lip and, and keen prettily, and beg, and beg and tell him, tell him what you want—  
but fuck it, you buck up your whole body and grab him by the shoulders—  
he swears, loses his balance, gripped by you, slips out and slides down and fuck—  
fuck it, you don’t care, you’re groping down the knobs of his spine and you’re going to get a handful of his bony ass too, if you can do it while you’re biting into the wet salt of his neck.

He flutters lovely sounds at all this, groans and gasps and relaxes, lets you suck an ugly pair of marks right into his throat, lets you take your revenge. Eventually he pulls you off—pushes you down—a broad hand on your chest like he belongs there and his dick fitting back into you as easy as sin. 

“I’m really taking too long, aren’t I,” he murmurs down at you, apologetic, fond. “I just love you like this. Sorry.” 

“It’s good,” you kick your heels into his back, a little enthusiastic movement, though it drags out of him a rueful _ oof. _“But I’m moon-horny baybee, ya gotta give me something.” 

“I think I’ve given you _ something _ ,” he snorts, and rocks his hips and fuck _ yes _he has, he’s given you a lot, and you’re taking it, you’re taking it so good— 

you must have said that out loud because he’s laughing— 

“You are, baby,” he hums at you, as you wrap your wrists around his neck and bury your fingers in his hair. “Taking it perfect. Hold on, all right?” 

“_ Yes _ ,” you wail, as he starts to move—  
and oh fuck oh shit oh _ god _ —  
you are definitely gonna owe Jonah a bushel of apologies, in the sore and distant morning. 

##  **⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤ **

If life were simple, you could just curl up in Pat’s beautiful arms and drift right to sleep, loose and fucked-out and blotched with bruises that you can’t stop touching. 

But no, you gotta get up, and clean up, and set things all to order, and take your medicine, and see what the night’s got left for you. 

Pat does himself first. It’s—intense, watching him band off the little elastic tourniquet, prep the syringe, pick a vein. Like a movie. You’ve never—okay you’re not a total square, but you’ve never been to a party _ that _badass. You say so, and he glances up at you, a little shy. 

“Yeah it’s, uh. Sorry. I know it’s weird. They’ll probably have a subcutaneous formulation eventually but for now it’s all like this.” 

“How’d you learn,” you say, easing yourself to sit next to him, on the bed. “Trial and error?” 

“No, Scratch showed me. She’s um. A friend.” 

“In your pack?” 

“Yeah.” There’s a moment of quiet while Pat shuffles things around. He made it look like it didn’t hurt. “You sure you want to do this? You don’t have to, you know.” 

You’re glad, that he’s giving you the chance to back out; it’s damn decent. You’re not going to. 

“I know.” 

“You can just take whatever you normally do,” Pat raises his eyebrows at you, as he pulls out a second dose. “I’ll take care of you.” 

“I’m doing it.” 

Pat nods at this, and doesn’t hesitate as he pulls out a new needle from his works. He showed it all to you, before, it’s not terrifically complicated, but now that it’s going in your arm you’re newly focused on all the details. He loads the syringe from the vial, and it gives you the jitters, how clinical his attention is. 

“Want me to teach you how, or just want me to do it,” he asks, softly. 

You—giggle, which is an inappropriate response, but you’re nervous, you feel like you’re sixteen and somehow talked your way into a club, with your older, cooler friend. Like you don’t even know what to order; you don’t know the names of drinks yet. You lean into his arm, press against him. 

“You do it.” 

“All right.” He doesn’t let you keep your weight on him, nudges you up gently. “Clench your fist a few times, all right? Get some blood in there.” You do that, pump your hand. He’s a little tense, you think, as he knots the plastic thing around your arm, and when he crouches in front of you, frowning, you’re sure of it, can see it in the crease of his forehead. 

“I’m don’t mind needles,” you assure him, which is only half-true; you’re not _ afraid _of them or anything but they’re not your favorite. He half-smiles at this, probably to reassure you, before he drops into over-seriousness again. “Don’t look so worried.” 

“I just don’t wanna fuck it up and hurt you.” 

“Don’t _ say _that,” you joke. “Oh my god your bedside manner sucks.” 

“Well your veins suck,” he mutters, rubbing at your inner elbow with his thumb. 

“Nuh-uh,” you pout. You feel...sleepy, childlike, and it’s nice to have his hands on you, steering you. “You’re just preternaturally gifted.” 

“_ Preternaturally _,” he parrots back the syllables, slow and teasing. “Siri, look up what the fuck my boyfriend is talking about.” 

Ooh, now that’s— 

and he _ freezes _, that’s interesting— 

his muscles tense and he shoots a look up at you, afraid. Awaiting judgment. 

You don’t mean to make him squirm on the point of that, but you’re basking in it for a second, the warm rush of delight, that’s just as good, you figure, as anything else you could put into your veins— 

_ play it cool, Gilbert _— 

you yawn, respond unbothered, “Sorry, your boyfriend’s kinda hoity-toity with the vocab. It just means you’re gol’-darn unnaturally veiny, Pat Gill, and we can’t all be so lucky, y’hear?” 

He smiles at you so wide— 

fuck those dimples are gonna be the end of you— 

he smiles, all, all bright and happy, like you just gave him a present.

And you can’t stop grinning, either, not the whole time he fusses about finding a vein, and finds one, and swabs it clean and sticks you carefully and draws back blood and plunges it home. The amber liquid feels like prickly-ice, like liquid goosebumps, but you can’t even be that bothered when Pat’s got your elbow from below, spans your whole forearm with his warm grip and keeps you tethered to him. 

Then it’s done. You did it. He did it. You let him do it to you. He sticks a bandaid on. 

“What should we do while we wait,” you say, and now, _ now _, now that’s it’s done you hear on your voice a crackle of nerves. 

“We can play something,” Pat shrugs. “Or watch something. Or if you want we could—” A cough. “Anything, really. Whatever you want.” 

Oh, there's no _way _you're letting him get away with that. You turn and screw up your face in comic skepticism, raise your eyebrows. “No bad ideas in brainstorming, Pat, what were you _ gonna _say, right there.” 

He tucks his tongue in his cheek, somewhere between bashful and teasing. “Guess.” 

“Why, Pat Gill we _ just _ cleaned up, you ol' hounddog, I _know _I'm irresistible—but really now—” 

“No, _no_, not—” his words trip over themselves, he shakes his head as if to dislodge the accusation. “Not _that_, Brian, Jesus.”

“I could totally go again, if you _really _want to,” you lean into him conspiratorially and whisper, cup his face so he can't look away from you. “Don't be shy. It's just like Emily Dickinson said.. _The dick wants what it wants, or else it does not care_.” 

“Oh my god are you—I didn’t—I was just gonna—_ kissing _ , I meant kissing.” He goes _ red _under your fingers and you laugh because he’s perfect, perfect, oh my god he’s perfect. 

“Love it, great idea, end brainstorming sesh,” you grin.

“I hate you,” he grumps, as you smoosh his cute little cheeks together and transmit all your nerves into rogueish affection. 

“I don't believe youuu," you sing-song, bright and bubbly and just a little high. "Commence make-out session, and hurry it up, I gotta moon to catch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this thing keeps expanding, but this time I really mean it: one more chapter, for transformations and resolutions, and then we done <3


	4. pleura

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains another (super brief) mention of needles/drugs,

The change hurts less than you thought it would. Not surprising, maybe. You tend to overestimate how much things are gonna suck, ha, anxiety be like that, but also sometimes you _ woefully underestimate _how much a thing can hurt, and you were nervous that— 

Pat goes first. You’re cuddling, one second, slotted around the curve of his back, feeling his breath steady and slow but not yet leaden with sleep— 

and then it cuts off with a sniff; he tenses, and breathes not at all for a dozen seconds. 

“Pat?” you murmur soft, since you figure this is what you’ve been waiting for, but uh, now that, now that it’s here you haven’t a friggin’ _ clue _what to do about it. “Should I—do I let go, or…?” 

He doesn’t answer, just goes pale and unbreathing and whalebone-stiff, in your arms. 

So you let go, then, of where you’re holding; push up instead to sit cross-legged beside. You keep a hand on him, though, stroke your thumb across the ridge of his hip. You hope that doesn’t hurt. You hope the whole thing doesn’t hurt. You say _ it’s all right _in a quiet whisper, uselessly. 

And still, no breath, no words, no change. 

You’ve never seen anyone change in real life. Not even yourself. God, you’re out _ long _before it happens, as far as you know; you sometimes lose the whole day before even. Though you think you’re functional at work? As far as anyone can tell? Just have to not do too much writing, not leave any jokes half-finished that your future self won’t be able to remember— 

gosh, he’s sure taking a long time,  
a long time without breathing. Is this normal? 

The informational video you watched didn’t, didn’t mention breathing. If anything the person breathed _ more _, gulping air; but then that video was a piece of badly-acted fakey-fake bullshit, less budget than the average B-movie, you could have done way— 

oh _ gosh _oh golly oh fuck it’s— 

it’s, it’s _ happening _, oddly still and silent. 

If you had any sense you’d look away. You’d figured, wondered, maybe feared a bit that he would writhe and scream, like, you know, a really dramatic—  
like, your _ bones are breaking _ and shit, right?—  
fuzzy hair forcing out of your skin, howls of pain, all that stuff. Honestly you kinda figured that was the bare minimum—  
that that was why the drugs put you under so hard and deep, right? to spare you— 

but it looks. Um—okay?  
okay. It looks okay. 

Not violent. No tears or anything. God, if Pat had screamed—  
but he doesn’t. There’s no screaming. There couldn’t be. He’s not drawn in any air to scream. It’s just breathless silent shifting, so fast that when you pause to look at one thing—  
the hand narrowing to pink pads—  
oh wow, Pat’s fur is _ white _ —  
when you pause, and look at a thing, something else happens too fast for you to see—  
oh my gosh he has such pointy _ ears! _ —  
and you miss all the mysterious terrible intermediaries, for the most part. 

Finally, fucking _ finally _, he sucks a breath and keens out a single puppy-like moan of lonely pain. Then there’s just a big beautiful white wolf-dog in your bed, sharp snout and eyes pale amber. 

You expected to be fucking terrified but instead you’re oddly delighted. He’s licking your palm.

“Oh my god Pat you’re _ white _ ,” you say, and giggle as you bury your other hand in his fur. “You didn’t tell me! I thought—okay it’s stupid but I thought _ everyone _was grey! I’m just like, boring old grey-brown! My fur’s like fucking dryer lint color, you asshole, trust me I have to vacuum up big ol’ fuzzy gobs of it every month and then you bust in here like some kind of snow princess—”

Pat snorts, a sound a little twisted through the shape of his muzzle, and noses your hand. 

You’re petting and trying to think of a joke when it comes on. 

It feels a little like an asthma attack, to be honest. Your diaphragm seizes. It’s like a hiccup but not just one quick pulse of movement that jerks and passes. It stays tight, like the muscle’s cramped, cramped itself into a knot and won’t, won’t fucking let go, won’t let you—  
you _ breathe _ —  
god it—  
it makes terror run through you, not being able to unfuck that deep internal tightness and you slam your eyes closed because you don’t think you want to see this from the inside. 

Not this time, anyway. Maybe one day. But this time you— 

weirdly, you can’t really feel your body changing. You asked Pat a lot of questions, before, but he was useless. Just said it hurts a little, but not for very long, and that it doesn’t bother him anymore. This was insufficiently detailed for you to freak out about, so you pushed him for a metaphor, an analog—

—but y’know it, it _ is _kinda hard, hard to pin down, the kind of pain, how to explain it, even now that you’re in the middle of feeling it. Your body doesn’t love the perplexity of new sensation, draws your thought, your attention, away. Vaguely, you are feeling something, all over and in you, and you’re pretty sure it’s not pleasant, but mostly your mind sticks on the sensations it knows how to categorize— 

soreness in your mouth, a sharp familiar kind of pain, old, a pain before memory; like you’re teething all over again but all at once. 

The last human thought you have is that you were a little silly, to be so scared. 

## ⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤

Later you’ll remember most of it, in something like clarity. At the time you were beyond words. 

Things were sensation. Pat licking your face—it felt like licking your hand felt, but better—he smelled so strong, homey happy wood-oil warm smell, the same smell, as before, but better. 

Once you changed, you’re pretty sure you leaped off the bed first, felt the flex of your muscles and danced around on your toes, made a tight cheerful circle, yipped up at the ceiling. 

Looking at Pat you remember the— 

the colors of everything were different, dimmer and also sharper, your wall-colors and bed-colors and clothes-colors in the corner and all the colors different, except the colors of Pat, who was still white and amber. 

It’s hard to remember the colors, of all the not-Pat things, because you didn’t look at them very long. Most everything in the room was boring, not worth looking-at, except for Pat. 

He loved you, you felt like. 

(That word meant something different to this version of you,  
but you didn’t wince to think it at the wrong time;  
too early, too earnest, too clingy, too crazy, these thoughts are not wolf-thoughts.)

Oh, and he—when he tried to play—you wanted to play—right away you wanted to—but you were nervous—he was so big! And you didn’t, you didn’t know how to play yet, but somehow it came natural. It felt like dancing, your human brain will later supply, like you’ve had the moves, the flow of it ground into you since youth and can trust your body to act, to improvise, to balance and recover. 

Pat was slow-moving and careful with you, while you wrestled and pounced again and again, until he was tongue-panting tired and you almost half had a chance of winning. 

He was too broad and strong and _ big _ for you to win fair-and-square, how can he possibly be so big, that’s cheating. Maybe you’re on the small side. Your doctor called you an _ eastern wolf _and said you were like nearly half coyote, which insulted you somehow. Made you put your ears back. 

You pounced on him again after he was tired and he made an exasperated sound but mouthed at you and arced his back and got his teeth in your back but not that hard and you darted and— 

_ owowow fuuuuucking desk _— 

knocked into furniture so loud you startled him and got a good angle at his throat— 

and no, you didn’t win, but you came closer than you had before and when he let you up you sat on your haunches, satisfied, and barked. He joined you, perhaps in congratulations. He barks much louder than you, too, gruff and big—you, like, _ yip _, which is really embarrassing. 

A human that was Jonah in the hallway banged on the door,  
(you think if you were human you would’ve been startled,  
but you smelled-heard-felt him coming  
and so you were already facing the right way to look.)

“Hey, you all right in there? Big wolf bully isn’t beating you up, right?” 

You yip back bright and impulsive and realize that this is, that you _ do _this, that he checks on you. 

“Good. Just checking. D’you want some bacon?” 

You yipped again, and Pat joined you, and Jonah laughed at you and you wished you could see him, that he could see you, could play with you. You didn’t want to bite him, to hurt him. You wanted to rub up against him and protect him and also get completely uselessly underfoot while he cooked bacon. 

Later, you won’t quite trust yourself _ that _ much, to suggest something like that,  
but you will thank him for slipping you bacon under the door,  
and yell at him for calling you _ Big Dog Gilbert _ which is just too much—  
how could he embarrass you like that? when you were with _ Pat _ ?? on a _ date?? _  
and then he’ll say _ oh, were you trying to get your “bone” on? _ and he'll wiggle his eyebrows  
and you’ll pillow him straight to the fucking face. 

You make it up, before the next month. Before the next day, even, it’s not, you’re not the type to actually bicker. 

“Seriously, y’all were no trouble,” Jonah says and offers to do it again, any time. 

“Thanks,” you say earnestly, and touch his arm while you say it,  
so he knows you really mean it with all your being  
and also so he knows that you’re definitely close enough to pillow him again if he makes any more observations about the comparative noisiness of your human and dog selves.  
“But I think I”m gonna try heading to Pat’s place next month. See if it works out.” 

## ⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤

It’s not exactly a sewer, where Pat’s friends meet. It’s an abandoned subway station, and it ain’t easy to get to. You have to hop off at a stop in Upper Manhattan, then walk a while, in the dark, then open a door in an alley that _ definitely _shouldn’t be unlocked, then wend your way through what is either an active construction site or a creepily accurate facsimile—abandoned tools and rubble and torn-up drywall and all. 

But Pat takes your hand and leads you. He doesn’t look the least bit uncertain, looks almost bored with the rote-ness of it. It reminds you of flight attendants, or deep-sea rescue divers, or mafia delivery-men—like, someone whose regular day-to-day business is just so goddammed crazy that it becomes mundane. 

“They’re all gonna want to meet you,” Pat turns a bit, to look at you, half-bites his lip. He’s even sharper in the shadowed darkness, of twilight-coming-night. “Is that gonna be...I can tell them to lay off? If that sounds too overwhelming. 

“Oh I’m good,” you say, although you don’t know if you are. “I’m a people person. How many are there?” 

“Depends on the month. Like, ten to fifteen, usually. I think it’ll be twelve this time, but Greg was a _ Maybe _so could be thirteen.” 

“Lucky number,” you say, which is supposed to be a joke but it sounds nervous, shaky, breathed out into the stiff air. You wish you’d worn more than just a jeans jacket. “Do y’all seriously just make like a facebook event for this shit, or—” 

“Don’t get on my case,” Pat smirk-smiles as he turns. “I’m an old man. I can’t get on tiktok or whatever the kids are scheduling events on these days.”

“Definitely not tiktok,” you say, as you climb down—well, as Pat climbs down, first, hand-over-hand into somewhere that you surely shouldn’t be. “I mean I _ guess, _if you had a hashtag, and like a promotional—” 

“Don’t bother explaining,” Pat calls up to you from the dark, below. “I’m a Luddite, you’ll never win. You’re lucky I’m not using a Yahoo! newsgroup.” 

“I can _ hear _that exclamation point, Pat Gill,” you laugh, as you follow him. 

It’s even _ colder _down below, ugh, colder and closer and feels unwelcoming; a place that was built for construction workers and tunnel rats and other folk who understand the underdark of New York. You feel out of place, fall silent, as you sidle along a narrow ledge. 

“We can just walk on the tracks,” Pat mentions idly, as you pick your way, your footing careful, behind him. “It’s decommissioned. I just feel weird about it.” 

“Mmm,” your hum is noncommittal, but you’re privately glad. You’d rather put your dancer balance to use than walk along that creepy passage, down which surely no, no train would come, but shit, you’d think about it, like, the whole time. 

Maybe you’re not cut out for this; maybe you’re too, too domesticated and too jumpy. But there’s no turning back now.

_ Such melodrama, Gilbert, _your brain deadpans. It’s not that late. You’ve got hours. You’re only in Manhattan. You’re six blocks and one subway ride away. You could definitely turn back. You don’t. 

## ⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤

There are a handful of people there already. Some of them have regular names, like _ Tina _ and _ Chris _ , and others you’re pretty sure are like, pseudonyms—or maybe just nicknames— _ Fivel _ and _ Scratch _ and _ Cap _ . You go in for, for a handshake, for the first one, stick out your hand and say hello like a normal person—she looks at you incredulously, like you just doffed your cap and bowed low and said _ pip pip cheerio! _

“He’s new, Scratch,” Pat intones, behind you. “And not just like, to us. To the whole—this is what, Bri, month six?”

“Seven,” you correct, and bring your hand back close to you, wipe the sweat off on your jeans. Gosh, you’ve never been good at blending in with the cool kids, and it seems you’re not starting now. 

Scratch’s expression softens. She’s kinda fierce, with a gauged nose and a shock of bleached-out half-shaved hair, but her face turns gentle allofasudden. “Oh! God. Well, welcome to the party. It’s cool you found us so fast. Should we skip a greeting this time, then, Pat? It’ll all be kind of a lot—” 

“He’s all right,” Pat says, and the way he speaks for you, even if he’s just repeating your words, drags up your spine with sparkling pleasant nerves. “Just take it slow, yeah?” 

Scratch nods, and then looks back to you. She smiles and reaches out her hand; you take it, but it’s not, she’s not _ shaking _it, that’s for sure. She’s just using it to pull you closer, tug you in, not fast but not slow. 

“I’m gonna ruffle your cute fuzzy hair and smell it,” she grins at you. “Nothin’ weird, promise. Then I’ll walk you around to all the others.” 

The way she draws you close is something kind of like a hug, but really mostly one hand touching your hip loosely while the other gets at your head. She’s taller than you, but you think that’s the boots. She tips your head forward and buries her nose in your hair. You think—well, you’re not sure—but you think that you should do the same, that it’s okay to smell her back. You do. She smells like, like… 

like licorice and coriander and nail polish remover,  
like someone who works in food service and has houseplants and enjoys beautiful things.  
You like her, instantly. Your nerves fade. You’re starting to _ get _ this smelling thing. 

Scratch walks you around to everyone, and tells them you’re new, _ no not like that, no like he’s REALLY new, now don’t feel him up! _and she’s joking, clearly, but also you’re glad she’s got a hand on your shoulder, almost possessive, as she says it. A few folks ask you questions but it’s nothing, it’s just, basic small talk stuff: oh, you work with Pat? what video games do you like? have you seen the new star wars? stuff like that. 

Tina, who’s small but smells like she could kick your ass, blurts “Why are you _ here _,” in a tone that’s half-to-threatening. Scratch tries to bump in there, to step between, but Pat’s already at your side. 

“I invited him,” he says, easily, voice calm and warm. “He’s not sure if it’s gonna be his thing, yet. But he’s fine, Tina. He’s not a cop. He’s a theater major. I’ve seen the pictures.” 

“Am _ not _ ,” you play up the scandalized tone, turn away from Tina’s glare. “I’m a _ creative writing _major with a minor in theater studies, you bastard—”

Tina laughs, behind you, hoarse like a bark. “Fair. Sorry, kid. You don’t—I mean, you don’t _ look _like a cop, but that doesn’t mean…”

“No, no, it’s fine,” you turn back, and smile your best and cutest. “I have that real _ oh shit is he a narc? _face, I get it.” 

She shrugs, not confirming or denying, and reaches out for you again. She doesn’t look at you, when she does it, but at Pat. He nods, in your periphery, and you feel—

fuck, it feels _ weird _, that he’s giving her permission to touch you, that something in her skeptical glare sussed out immediately that asking Pat was basically the same as asking you. Better, even. You try not to examine that thought. She turns you around and sniffs up the nape of your neck in a way that’s sharp and businesslike and makes you shiver. 

“How long have you even lived in New York,” she asks you, her breath fluttering your hair. 

“A year,” you say, a touch defensive, because yeah you’re not like a _ native _but you’re not a tourist either, okay? 

She snorts and mutters something like _ that explains it _ and you try not to feel too weird as she shifts away before you can even try to sniff her back. 

  
  
  
  


After you’ve met a bunch of fucking _ werewolves— _  
god your life is weird—  
and been touched and prodded and smelled, and your hair is surely a mess—  
after all that, things get comfier. You sit with Pat and eat pad thai—  
some guy named Sergio just showed up with it, with a dozen containers—  
you’re not sure if everyone has a regular order or maybe Pat just ordered for you. 

Fivel drags ‘round a big plastic trash bag and everyone starts stretching and cracking their necks and taking off their clothes. It feels, honestly, like nothing so much as the minutes before a dance class, folks shedding their legwarmers and such, but you, you _ have _to check, just in case. 

“This isn’t like an _ orgy _kind of thing, right?” you murmur at the base of Pat’s skull. “‘Cause I didn’t bring any lube, okay—”

Pat laughs, too loud. A few people look over from where they’re standing. Scratch winks at you. 

“Nope. I’m definitely not cool enough to get invited to something like that.” 

It’s incongruous, watching him say that while he rolls up his sleeve here in a loose circle of friggin’ friendly werewolves who are all hanging out underground to do drugs. You tell him so and he snorts. 

“Brian, I’m not cool. I don’t even know where to get weed.” 

You tell him to come to your next open mic, plenty of people will have some, and he looks at you a long moment and says that he will, and that makes you feel weird and warm. It’s nice, imagining Pat in _ your _ den of familiar faces, passing him around to a crowd of eager indie musicians, inducting him into the rituals of _ your _kind. You like to think of that. 

Pat does you again, ties off your arm, mutters, “I really need to teach you how to do this.” 

“Next time,” you offer. 

He glances up at you, kneeling in front of you, and you’re thwumped in the heart by how pretty his eyelashes are, eyes dark and large with focus as he takes care of you, is careful not to hurt you. He, he, _ gosh, _he presses his lips to the inside of your arm before he starts to seek a vein. You lean down and pull him up a bit, to kiss you properly.

He’s warm and careful and excited, you can feel it humming in him. It melts your nerves, the confident way his mouth meets yours, how happy he is that you’re there. How could be be afraid? 

Breaking away, you dart a bashful look around, for yanking him into a kiss when everyone is so close. But they don’t seem to notice. Werewolf baseline is more physical, maybe, or maybe it just surprises no one that you can’t keep your hands off that fabulous jawline. 

“Why am I ever _ not _kissing you,” you sigh, just to see if he can blush hard enough for you to spot in the dark. He makes a solid go of it. 

“Don’t say stuff like that when I’m trying to stab you.” His tone is muffled, and it makes you laugh. “You’ll make me miss.”

“I trust you. You nailed it last time. Ol’ deadeye Gill never misses. He’s a real straight-shooter.” 

He rolls his eyes fondly. “Look away, won’t you? Close your eyes. And hold still.” 

“Lie back and think of England,” you sing-song out the pitter-patter of your nervous thoughts, but you do close your eyes. You try to feel the grip of Pat’s strong hand on you, not the prick, or the burn, or the feel of eyes on you. You focus on, just on Pat’s hand, and on his breath, and on how much you’re aching to kiss him again. 

  
  
  


You curl up in Pat’s arms while you wait. There’s a nice quilted blanket to lie on, though you didn’t bring it. You wonder who did—are all the blankets courtesy of someone? donations? are they stashed here in-between? Is there a pack Target fund for new blankets every few months? 

And who washes them? _ Someone _must, this one smells clean, of soap and cedar. You owe whoever washed this a thank you. Maybe you can bring cupcakes next time. Do werewolves eat cupcakes? 

Wait, should you bake dog treats_ ? _Would that be rude, or the best idea ever? Could you— 

your thoughts run loose and nervous-free, but Pat Gill strokes your hair and whispers gossip in your ear about his friends— 

_ don’t say anything too scandalous, _ he murmurs softly, _ like, everyone can hear fucking everything _

—and as he talks and pets, you calm. You feel the fragments of your self detach more gradually this time, feel them clarify and atomize. 

You go first. Your breath stops and your fangs come in. It feels faster than last time, but a bit more violent. You’re glad Pat’s got his arms wrapped tight around you, like corded steel. 

No one watches you, you don’t think. You don’t have the attention to tell, but you feel like if everyone were staring your skin would burn with it. But they let you be. Like you’re changing your shirt. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. To them, you suppose, it is. 

## ⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤

You’d been worried, before, that you wouldn’t be able to tell that many wolves apart. Of course, that was stupid, completely stupid. Everyone smells just exactly like they should, even if most of them are grey and brown like you. 

You’re glad Pat’s the only white one, though. It makes him easy to spot. He was never out of your sight, even as you played and jumped and barked and ran around in circles and bit at the garbage bag because it smelled interesting and got growled and swatted at and whimpered in fear and Pat was close by and you hid behind him and he licked you and nipped at you and you whined and scratched and demanded cuddles and then you two you played and bit and jumped and barked and you nipped Scratch and you got bit and yipped in joy and pain and played and won and then you lost and got pinned and whined in bare frustrated and Pat barrelled over and nosed at you and you wriggled away ‘cause you were _ fine _but he barked at Scratch anyway— 

_ You’re awfully small, _ he’ll say later, when you accuse him of being a mama bear, who kept breaking up your best and funnest fights. _ They might go too hard without realizing. _

They didn’t, though. Maybe you earned a couple bruises, but nothing that really stings. You tugged and tackled for much, much longer than Pat wanted to, mostly with Scratch but also with the others, while Pat just rested and watched over you like a sphinx. 

You went until you were exhausted then came around to join him. He made you drink water, nearly pushed your face in it, the little bowl. Hugs are not quite possible in dog-bodies, but you felt it, anyway, felt him all along your back and felt quite safe enough to go right straight to sleep. 

You honestly won’t remember changing back. It must have happened, possibly while you were napping, the muscles sliding and rearranging without your full attention. How quickly the grotesque becomes mundane. 

You _ do _ remember how quickly things broke up, in the wee morning hours, reclothed humans yawning and sliding off exhausted like a party gone on too long. You remember that you couldn’t keep your body off of Pat’s, that you clung to him like a limpet while he said his goodbyes. That was, gosh, so rude, so weird, but you couldn’t help it, you _ couldn’t. _Pat said it was fine, that no one minded, that he didn’t mind, and he meant it. 

You test his patience on the walk home, not letting him have his limbs, his fingers; too close-tucked under his arm and refusing to move aside or detach the arm around his waist. He sighs, long-suffering, and lets you, until you tickled him—  
he gives a delightful _ hurk _ sound of displeasure—  
tries to jerk away from you, you don’t let him, step with him—  
he growls and you laugh and do it again, you have no idea why—  
he pushes you unsteady—  
you ball-change back your weight and dive in again, pinch at his belly—  
he _ hates _that, oh my gosh, it’s so cute— 

you don’t really think through what you’re doing until he’s shoved you twice more and you’ve laughed and danced free and then gosh, _ gosh, _he jerks you into an alcove and roughs you up against the wall and gets a hand up your shirt and his teeth on your throat. 

“Stop riling me up,” he gruffs into your skin. You give a little keening moan because that’s, yes, that’s _ exactly _what you were trying to do, yes that’s it. “I’m not fucking you in an alley.” 

“Where’s your sense of adventure,” you whine, and drag your palm over his pants. 

“You’re crazy.” He’s trying for incredulous, maybe. 

“Crazy like a wolf,” you quip, not really a joke but you have no time. “C’mon, daddy, let me suck your dick, I’ll go _ so _fast for you.” 

“Please,” Pat’s voice is strained. “I can’t get you arrested tonight. You’ll never forgive me.”

“I’m sure you’d make it up to me.” You know _ exactly _how to roll your hips up into a taller boy, so that the apex of your thrust drives you into him. “You’d help me make bail. Or at least keep me from getting bored in lockup.” 

“_Brian,_” Pat groans, grabs your face in self-defense, kisses the smirk off it, a long breathless moment. “_Please _let me get you home first. We’re like, fifteen minutes away.” 

“You know how good I can make you feel in fifteen minutes?” you say, as soon as he lets you. “You don’t even have to take off your pants.” 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he grunts in mock-despair as you slide your fingers under his waistband, grin in satisfaction about how hard he is. Pat Gill is not the type to fuck you in public, but you feel the charge, that you can do this to him, that you can get him so close. 

And _ maybe— _ _  
_ it _ is _the moon— 

“I swear to Jesus Mary and Joseph if you just let me get you home I’ll do—” he gasps, curls over your shoulder, holding you down and also crumbling under your fingers. “_ Whatever _ you want, whatever you want, I’ll do it. But _ pleasegodplease _not here, I can’t—I won’t—you’ve got—” 

You take that stuttering as the surrender it is and let him loose. “I’ll hold you to that, Pat Gill.” 

He sucks a breath, adjusts his glasses on his cheeks. You love the high lively color of his face, the pupils dark and wild, the way he looks at you hungry and desperate and just a little afraid. Afraid of what you could do. What you could make him do. 

“You’re a bastard,” he says, without malice. “How can you not be tired. You spent all night running around.” 

If he tucks his tongue in the corner of his mouth like that, you might just accidentally start kissing him again. You’re moon-wild and happy, youlet out a little yelp of joy—  
because you’re safe and it was wonderful—  
and you were afraid and you were _ victorious— _ _  
_and there’s so many silver-promised moments left in this long lovely night. 

“Let’s get you home,” Pat says, and curls an arm around you, right at the seam of clothes where you’re coldest, where you need him most. “Then you can let me have it. Or fall straight asleep. Whatever mood you’re in, you maniac.” 

You grin, and nod, and let him lead you back, feel each step through the city civilizing you, calming the thoughtless burn of your strange impulses. You think you’ll have enough to get some mischief done, tonight, though. Hopefully. 

Either way, you have next month to look forward to.

⬤☽◐◯◑☾⬤


End file.
